The Girl Who Fought Napoleon: A Novel of the Russian Empire (10 page)

Chapter 17

Mikhailovsky Castle, St. Petersburg

November 1801

Alexander reined his stallion to a halt at the green-watered moat surrounding Mikhailovsky Castle. He drew in a breath. He found the new castle, a medieval fortress, unsettling. The Moika and the Fontanka rivers flanked the castle, with two man-made canals connecting the rivers to form the perimeter moat.

Impenetrable. Like my father.

Everything about the emperor’s new residence reflected his father’s fears of assassination or coup d’état. The original whimsical wooden structure that Peter the Great’s daughter Tsarina Elizabeth had treasured was razed to build Paul’s fortress. The new Mikhailovsky Castle was built around an octagonal courtyard where Emperor Paul could amass a small army in case of attack.

Alexander spurred his stallion across the drawbridge. The horse’s hooves echoed on the wooden planks, making him prance nervously. Each hoof strike made him leap higher, his eyes ringed white. The grand duke sat deep in the saddle, holding his breath as they clattered off the drawbridge and into the castle courtyard.

“Grand Duke, greetings,” called out Count Nikita Panin. Alexander remembered Panin from lively dinners where he had championed Russia’s alliance with England. Now the count had risen to become the emperor’s vice-chancellor of foreign affairs, despite his unabashed love for the English.

As Alexander swung down from his horse, a stable boy caught hold of the reins.

“Your horse shows good spirit,” said Panin jocularly. “I expect he has never seen a drawbridge before.”

“You witnessed that, General Panin? I thought the brute would throw me into the water!”

“You handled him well,” said Panin. Alexander noticed the approving gleam in the general’s eyes. The grand duke’s breast swelled with pride. So rarely did anyone admire Alexander’s horsemanship, especially on his father’s turf.

“The emperor expects you in his apartments,” said Panin.

“Thank you,” said Alexander, giving the hem of his uniform jacket a discreet tug. He brushed his sleeves and aligned his jacket cuffs.

“I shall accompany you,” said the general. “Shall we go?”

Alexander nodded curtly. His attention was focused on the bronze equestrian statue of Peter the Great. The original inscription, “Petro Primo Catherina Secunda,” “Peter I Catherine II,” was gone. A new marble pedestal read “Like Great Grandfather, the Great Grandson.”

As if Papa could ever scratch out his mother’s mark on Russia and replace it with his own!

Alexander felt the general’s eyes studying him, as palpable as a thin veil tossed over his skin.

At last, Panin said, “Please, Grand Duke. This way. The emperor awaits.”

“Ah! You have arrived,” said a voice from the top of the spiral stairs. “Come in, Alexander. Come in.”

“What do you think of my new castle, Alexander?” said the emperor as his son entered the private apartments. “I have only just occupied my rooms this month.”

Alexander glanced about his father’s apartment, quite small in comparison with any other royal suite. The gold moldings contrasted with the stark white of the walls. A door that overlooked the Romanov private chapel of St. Michael’s stood ajar, offering a glimpse of the golden iconostasis and, above that, a fresco of St. Michael hovering on the vaulted ceiling.

“Is it not splendid?” said the emperor. “Look at the chapel. We shall worship there on Sundays together in privacy.” Then he waved a hand toward the window. “And look how the waters sparkle from the moat—much more light than the Winter Palace, that bloated corpse.”

Alexander smiled.

He is in a good humor, grace be to God! If only it could last.

“You have created an elegant palace,” he said. “Encased by a formidable fortress. I do not know that I have ever crossed a true drawbridge. My stallion was quite nervous.”

Paul puckered his forehead, scowling at his son.

And the storm clouds gather in an instant. Can I never say anything right?

“What warhorse cannot cross a drawbridge, or what cavalryman cannot ride him without hesitation?” snapped the Tsar. “And it is
not
a fortress, although given the reports of treason that abound, I have every right to be concerned.”

“What reports are those, Father?” asked Alexander. “Who has spoken of plots?”

“I am not such a fool to disclose those who tell me what others would keep hidden!” his father snapped. “Mikhailovsky Castle will serve its intended purpose. I have the safety and seclusion I need to confer with my most intimate advisors.” Paul gestured to the three military officers who had been standing apart from the father and son: General Panin, Count Alexei Arakcheyev, an old acquaintance from Alexander’s childhood days at Gatchina, and Count Pyotr Pahlen, governor-general of St. Petersburg.

“These three,” the emperor continued, his eyes boring into his son.

Alexander’s skin prickled under his father’s scrutiny. He was keenly aware that General Panin had moved and was now standing just behind him, as if allying himself with the young grand duke.

“Yes, my dear son,” said Paul, his mouth twitching. “There are plots on my life. Some have even suggested that
you
are suspect. They suggest that you, my own son, would wish to see me dead and yourself on the throne of Russia.”

“Papa!” said Alexander. “I wish no such thing, I swear it! Who are the traitors who accuse me—”

“Ha!” said Paul, wrinkling his nose if he smelt something foul. “As the Englishman says, ‘Thou dost protest too much,’ Alexander. Did you and my mother not plot? Conveniently blotting me out of my nation’s future?”

“I—”

“I know all about it. A manifesto drawn up in September 1796, when you were nineteen. Do not pretend you do not know, Alexander. You have never learned to lie persuasively.”

“Yes, I knew of such a document, Your Highness,” said Alexander, lifting his chin in defiance. “It was the Empress Catherine’s proposal, not mine. I have never wanted to usurp your throne. Never!”

The Tsar’s eyes narrowed. His mouth tightened.

“Swear an oath to me, Alexander. Get on your knees and swear by Archangel Michael!”

Paul pointed to the open door, looking down onto his private chapel.

Alexander dropped to his knees, facing the image of St. Michael painted on the vaulted ceiling.

“I swear my allegiance to you, my father, Tsar Paul! I swear it!” He bowed his head and repeated, “I swear my allegiance to our most gracious Tsar Paul, ruler of all the Russias!” He crossed himself according to the Orthodox tradition.

Will he never have faith in me?

Paul looked his son up and down, as Alexander rose to his feet.

“No,” he said, closing the door to the chapel. “No, Alexander. You haven’t the guts to be an emperor. A tsar must make impossible decisions quickly and decisively. Fearlessly, Alexander! Your sail would flap in the wind, as you stood weighing this result against the other until the beating canvas was torn by the gales.”

Alexander’s face burned. He ventured a glance at the three officers. All three lowered their eyes in embarrassment at the browbeating of the young tsarevitch.

And the Tsar was not yet done.

“Your blood is too thin, Alexander, your conscience too brittle to command this mighty empire.” Paul snorted a derisive laugh. “Your younger brother Nicholas should wear the Russian crown. Now there is a military man in the making!”

Alexander flinched under the comparison.

Nicholas is a child! Four years old! Given to tantrums, breaking toys, and striking out at anyone who defies him. Is this the son my father prefers?

Alexander said nothing.

“There are changes in the wind, Alexander,” said the Tsar, taking a deep breath. “I have ordered the British ambassador Lord Whitworth home with his tail between his legs.”

Alexander sucked in his breath, aghast.

“Lord Whitmore sent back to London? But the British have been our allies, our international trade depends on—”

The Tsar cut him off with a gesture. “The British are no longer our friends. We will sign a pact with Napoleon. Then we shall meet the British, defeat them, and then on to Constantinople. Napoleon will rule the West and Russia the East. Russia and France! There will be no defeating us.”

“Napoleon? But—But what of our allies?”

“The devil take them! We shall rule the East.”

Alexander heard boots shuffle and sensed Panin’s uneasiness just behind him.

Panin worked hard to establish diplomacy with England. What can he possibly think of my father’s ravings?

“You are dismissed, Alexander,” said the Tsar, with a flap of his hand.

Alexander bowed to his father. General Pahlen escorted him out the door.

“We must talk, Grand Duke,” whispered the general.

Chapter 18

Sarapul, Russia

September 1806

I gave Alcides his head and we galloped in the moonlight toward the Cossack camp. He needed to expend his restless energy from not being ridden—and I needed to put my home and my parents behind as quickly as I could. There was no time for second thoughts, no time for turning back. The autumn wind stung my face as we raced through the dark.

Freedom! A precious gift from heaven.

The road to the Cossack camp led through a dense forest. I slowed Alcides to a walk as we entered the dark silence of the woods. A frigid north wind began to blow and I tucked my chin under the rough wool of my tunic. My fleece hat was pulled down so low I could barely see where we were going. But Alcides was sure-footed and he followed the road. Hours passed. At last, at dawn, he smelled the horses of the encampment and broke into a trot.

In a few minutes, I could smell the toasted warmth of kasha steaming in kettles over the fire. The colonel and officers were gathered in front of the headquarters tent, eating the hot porridge. They were talking intently when I rode up.

Silence fell as they looked up at me. They took in the colors of my Cossack uniform, not blue like that of the Don Cossacks, but the red of the Zaporozhian, from the steppes of the Ukraine, my mother’s homeland.

“What’s your regiment?” were the first words I heard.

I answered the colonel in the deepest voice I could muster.

“I do not have the honor of belonging to any regiment, Colonel.”

The men’s eyes grew wide and suspicious. I felt them inspecting me, my uniform, my saddle, and especially Alcides.

“I don’t understand you. You are not enrolled anywhere?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Why not?”

“I haven’t the right.”

“What! What does that mean, a Cossack without the right to be enrolled in a Cossack regiment! You wear a
cherkesska
. And Cossack boots and fleece cap. What kind of nonsense is that?”

The men began to murmur and mill about me. I wondered if they had guessed I was a girl, an impostor. As they pressed closer, I wondered if hands would reach for me, pulling me off my horse.

“I am not a Cossack,” I said.

“Well, then who the hell are you?” demanded the colonel. “Why are you in Cossack uniform and what do you want?”

“Colonel,” I said, reining Alcides away from the men who gathered close beside me, “I desire the honor of being enrolled in your regiment until such time as we reach the regular army.”

The murmurs grew louder.

The colonel grunted. “But just the same I have to know who you are, young man. And are you not aware that nobody can serve with us except native Cossacks?”

There was a growling laughter from the men. I felt my childish dreams shatter.

No! I cannot have risked so much to be refused!

“And I have no such intention, Colonel. I am only asking you for permission to travel to the regular army in the dress of a Cossack serving with you or your regiment. As to your question about who I am, I will only say what I can. I am from a noble family. I have left my father’s house and am on my way to serve in the army without my parents’ knowledge or volition. I cannot be happy in any calling except the military. If you won’t take me under your protection, I’ll find some way to join the regular army on my own.”

The colonel took in my words. Something I said must have struck a chord. “I haven’t the heart to refuse him,” said the colonel, turning to another Cossack who had remained silent, seated in the shadows. “Anatoli! What shall I do?”

The Cossack rose. He was one of the tallest men I had ever seen. He looked at me with shocking green eyes. I felt as if I had been shot.

The tall man scrutinized me, drinking in my features as his eyes ran across my face, my body. I saw his nostrils flare, the muscles of his face tense.

Then the faintest trace of a smile.

“And why should you refuse him? Let him come with us. He is but a boy.”

“He might make trouble for us.”

“Let him join us. His parents are nobility. They will be grateful to us for giving him refuge. With his hardheadedness and inexperience, if you turn him away he will surely come to grief. These forests are dangerous, especially for one as young as he.”

I saw the tall Cossack was giving me an advantage. I plunged in. “I will ride alone if you do not take me. I shall not turn back, I swear it!”

The colonel looked at me, shaking his head.

“Very well, young man. But I warn you that we are now on our way to the Don, and there are no regular troops there in the Ukraine.”

“I don’t care. I beg you to take me with you.”

“Shchegrov! Give the lad a horse from our stables.”

“Yes, sir,” said a small man beside him.

The tall Cossack moved toward Alcides and me. He ran his hand over Alcides forelegs and then his hindquarters. Alcides quivered under his touch.

Then he moved to take my horse by his reins. “I’ll take him, lad. I like Circassian bloodlines.”

“Get your hands off my reins,” I snapped at him. He looked into my eyes with anger. I met him with the same.

“Colonel!” I said. “I have a horse, a good one here. Circassian. I’ll ride my own, if you will permit it.” The colonel burst out laughing.

“So much the better, so much the better. Ride your own horse. What’s your first name anyway, my gallant lad?”

“Aleksandr Vasilevich Sokolov,” I lied, taking my father’s and brother’s name in one mouthful and inventing the surname.

“Aleksandr Vasilevich, on the march you will always ride with the first troop where I can keep an eye on you. You will dine and be quartered with me. Go on now. Eat some kasha to warm yourself. My orderly will take your horse for water and forage. We will be moving out almost immediately.”

The tall Cossack finally let go of my reins and I surrendered my horse to Shchegrov, who had another inferior horse in tow. I felt the tall Cossack’s eyes scrutinizing Alcides’s conformation as he was led off.

Alcides whinnied at parting with me.

“A fine horse,” he said. “He likes you. I trust you are a good enough rider to do him justice?”

“We do all right together,” I said.

How will we do in the battlefield? What do I really know about a Cossack regiment?

“Aleksandr Vasilevich Sokolov,” said a voice. It was the burly cook who gave me a metal cup full of steaming buckwheat. I took a wooden spoon from his hand, shoveling the porridge into my mouth. Never had anything tasted so good.

Half an hour later I was mounted with a heavy saber in my hand. It was nothing like the imaginary weapon I had wielded, running through our gardens in Sarapul, shouting, “Charge!”

My muscles were not accustomed to such weight. Every muscle shook with exertion. I could not hold my saber properly but tried with all my might to lift it high when the colonel and captain rode by me.

The strange dialect of the Cossacks, their laughs, and jokes were foreign to me. They spat and cursed. Every once in a while I’d see a soldier’s hand reach for his privates, scratching an itch.

As I urged Alcides forward, he pranced, flicking his ears at the new sounds of the horses around him, the flapping banners, and the lance point on his right flank.

“You sit your horse well, Aleksandr,” said the green-eyed Cossack from my left flank. “You have a fine Circassian waist that sets off the horse.”

The other men laughed.

“He does indeed! Comely as a girl,” said one rider.

I blushed, the rising heat scorching my neck and cheeks. I turned around in my saddle to see my tormenter, the green-eyed Cossack, as tall as Peter the Great.

He laughed, riding his horse flank to flank with Alcides.

“Aleksandr Vasilevich, indeed!” he whispered in my ear.

My blood froze.

He knows I am a girl. A single word from him and I will be sent home. This man, this one could ruin my life.

“Who are you?” I asked him.

“Your worst nightmare, Aleksandr Vasilevich,” he said, spurring his horse forward. He called over his shoulder, “My name is Anatoli Denisov. Don’t you remember me?”

“Should I?”

Denisov threw me a curious look, his brow furrowed. Then he laughed.

“To the right by threes!” shouted the captain.

The men in the front section burst out in song, their rich voices singing the Don Cossacks’ favorite song, “The Soul Is a Good Steed.”

Despite the cold morning, dust spun up on the road under the horses’ hooves. Alcides arched his neck, sensing the excitement. He was my only connection to home.

As we moved southwest toward the Don plains and the Cossacks’ homeland, I left my childhood behind forever.

The officers and I were all quartered together. The canvas tents were set close to one another. I was assigned to the colonel’s tent.

I waited until dark to make water. I felt as if I would burst even though I had been careful not to drink too much from my canteen. I walked from camp in the cover of night to make sure no one could catch sight of me as I squatted in the woods.

As it was already late autumn, I did not worry about undressing in front of the two captains and the colonel who shared the tent. I hoped that I would not dream or call out in the night. I fingered the short tufts of my hair reassuring myself that I looked more boy than girl.

No one spoke when the lantern was snuffed for the night. The men passed gas freely, insulted each other coarsely, and laughed in gruff voices. But there was no real talk. My companions fell asleep immediately. I listened to their raucous snores until I, too, fell into a deep sleep.

Before light had pierced the canvas, men stirred beyond our tent flaps. I heard the gurgle of the water poured into the enormous samovars for tea and boiling kasha, and the crackle of the fire. I could hear the stamp and snort of the horses, tethered to their picket lines. As I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, I heard the creak of the hinges of the hay wagon as the feed was pitched to the nickering horses.

My new life had truly started.

I walked down to the stream to wash the soot and dirt from my face. I cupped my hands into the icy water, dousing my face and neck in water. Far downstream I saw a movement. In the pale sunlight was a nude figure, clothes in a heap beside him. It was Denisov bathing. He shook the water from his blond hair like a dog and began rubbing himself dry with his tunic. His muscles formed knots in his back between his shoulder blades, his waist curved in like a scimitar. His left ribs were marked with a pink scar, running from his chest to his back.

I turned my back on him, splashing my face until my cheeks stung. When I looked back he was gone.

We had little time to eat. The kasha was mostly millet and buckwheat, but every day it was different depending on what had been procured from villages as we passed through. Just like the horses’ fodder, our diet depended on what could be requisitioned along the way from begrudging farmers. Often enough our kasha had bits of twigs and chafe in it, even sand and small pebbles.

Still the grains sustained us and I grew lean and muscled. The first few days I saw little of Denisov since he was, as I learned, a scout who rode ahead of our regiment.

At night he squatted in the shadows beyond the light of the campfire, watching me silently, his green eyes hungry as a wolf.