The Girl Who Fought Napoleon: A Novel of the Russian Empire (15 page)

Chapter 22

St. Petersburg

January 1802

Ekaterina Pavlovna, the Tsar’s youngest sister, the most spirited of all the Romanovs, often sat at her brother Alexander’s table. She was given the honor of sitting at his left, while his mother, Maria Feodorovna, sat on his right. The dowager empress was moved into the Winter Palace, now with greater power and influence than she ever had under the rule of her husband. With each passing day, she forgave her eldest son for his complicity in his father’s assassination, for he was so racked with grief she was convinced he had indeed taken no part in the murder.

Empress Elizabeth watched the light of the chandelier glint off the crystal champagne flutes, the silver and gold cutlery. With his mother’s love and his family’s encouragement cocooning him from the raw ache of his father’s murder, Alexander emerged shyly but brilliantly in his new mantle of Tsar of Russia. Seated on the Romanov family dais, Alexander radiated confidence.

His mother nodded with pleasure as she watched him.

He is coming to life. When he saw his father, strangled, trampled, a beaten corpse—exactly like his father, Peter, before him—when Alexander saw that, he died his own little death. But now he laughs, breaking bread with his family, those who share the same blood that spilt from his father’s veins.

My son is resurrected.

And as Maria Feodorovna basked in her son’s happiness, Elizabeth shrank in her gilded chair, noticing how
Alexander’s eyes flashed as he exchanged looks across the room with the Polish princess Maria Naryshkina. Despite her extravagant fortune—her villa in Fiesole, her castle in Florence, her residences in Russia—Princess Naryshkina dressed simply in white with no jewelry or adornment. Her black hair seemed to float about her white neck, tendrils spilling gracefully to her shoulders.

Elizabeth shuddered with hatred at the audacity of her husband’s mistress.

She had to tell me, when I inquired after her health, with simple politesse, “Ah, I am pregnant, you know.” Oh yes, I know. Just as I know the father is Alexander. My husband. I almost slapped her, just to see my red hand print on her white skin.

Amid the warm laughter and smiles of the Romanovs and courtiers, Empress Elizabeth receded in the shadows.

Part 3

Shadows of War

Chapter 23

The Don Steppes, the Ukraine

September 1806

A Cossack’s duty is to his horse. Without a horse, we are nothing. With the Cossacks, I learned to saddle and unsaddle my horse—a chore that had always been done by a groom both in the cavalry and at home. On my own, I had almost always ridden bareback.

But no matter his rank, a Cossack cared for his horses personally. Every night we led our mounts down to the water, letting them drink their fill. That was my favorite time of the evening. I watched Alcides’s lips meet the surface of the water, breaking the transparent ripples over the gray river rocks. The sun slid through the branches of the overhanging trees and stillness fell, except for the comforting snorts of the horses. Alcides drew the water down his throat, his ears swiveling forward and back with each gulp. I stroked his withers, stretching my arm over his back. I drew in the salty scent of warm horse mixed with the mineral smell of wet river stone.

He nuzzled against me curling his big head over my shoulder to my breast and nibbling at the buttons of my tunic.

I truly believe Alcides loved the Cossack cavalry as much as I did. We both tasted freedom. My body ached, but my soul soared.

“He is a fine animal,” said a voice. I turned and saw Denisov behind me. He was chewing on a stalk of dry grass.

“
Da
,” I said, turning away from him. The rocks were slippery on the bank and I did not want to embarrass myself by falling in the river.

“Where did you get him?” asked the Cossack.

“He was a gift.”

“But where did he get him? He is a Cossack breed, but not from the Don.
Pah!
Most of our herd are ugly dogs. That horse is from the Caucasus Mountains, or at least his ancestors are.”

“My father had a friend who rode with the cavalry in the eastern mountains. Alcides was a special gift.”

“You sit him well,” said Denisov. “He is comfortable under your hand.”

“Thank you,” I said, turning to face him now.

I caught the sparkle in his eye. Then his face turned serious. “But you are no cavalry soldier,” he said, shaking his head. “You have much to learn about riding. Good instincts but not enough instruction. Or experience.”

I turned away, shame washing over me.

“You say you want to join a unit, Aleksandr Vasilevich. But you cannot wield a weapon over your head or follow military drills with precision. You haven’t the strength, and you haven’t the discipline.”

“I am strong enough,” I snapped back.

He laughed. “No, you are not! And if you are permitted to join a regiment, you will be nothing but a burden. Our captain has a soft spot for young strays. He did not want to see you lost in the woods. But we will be joining the other Don Cossacks soon and then disperse. Then what will you do?”

“I . . . I . . .”

“You do not have a plan, do you?”

“I will join a regular regiment,” I said. “I come from a noble house. They will take me as an officer.”

“Not unless you become much stronger and not so naive. They cannot play nursemaid to you on the battlefield. You will endanger other lives.”

Alcides had finished drinking. He lifted his head, drops spilling from his mouth back into the river. He swiveled his ears toward me, waiting for my command.

I tugged on the rope and he leapt up onto the bank. I wanted to leave, but Denisov wasn’t done with me yet.

“You know you will have to travel northeast to Grodno to meet up with the regular regiments. There will be none there on the Don. Just we Cossacks. After our review, we depart for duty in all directions. You will be alone. How will you make it to Grodno alone?”

I stared at him. “I do not know. Not yet.”

“You need to have a plan, Aleksandr Vasilevich,” he said, turning toward camp. As he walked away, he called over his shoulder. “Think about it.”

We reached the Don River and Cossacks began to arrive from all directions. The Cossacks were attached to regiments throughout the Russian Empire, but returned to their roots to assemble and drill as a united tribe.

During the three days of drills and review, Alcides and I roamed the boundless steppe or I walked on foot, carrying a gun. As a young soldier—a boy—I had every right to explore the magnificent Don on my own, with no one to stop me. Half of my blood was Ukrainian and I was at last in my homeland.

Among Cossacks.

I thought of what Denisov had told me. I tried to strengthen my upper arms by wielding my sword over head. I could not begin to match the strength of a man. The sword point dipped dangerously close to Alcides’s neck.

On the third afternoon, the review ended. As I practiced maneuvers with my saber, I watched the hundreds of Cossacks on the hillside scatter in all directions, like ants fleeing a disturbed anthill. They were headed home, dispersing across the steppe.

“Aleksandr Vasilevich.” Denisov had ridden up quietly behind me.

I nearly sliced my thigh with my saber as I whirled around.

“You haven’t the technique at all. Let me show you before I leave for the north.”

He grasped his own sword, unsheathing it in a flash.

“Hold the hilt like this,” he said, grasping the saber with a practiced hand.

I watched him and tried to imitate him.

“No! Here, let me show you.” He sheathed his saber. “Extend your thumb along the back strap of the grip. Then you will have a more forceful downward swinging cut. Watch me.”

He unsheathed his saber with a resounding ring. He swung from the shoulder, his elbow locked, a straight line from his right shoulder through to the tip of his sword.

I watched him make a savage upward slice with the weapon.

“That is when a man’s guts are spilled. Hesitate and you are a dead man.”

Spill a man’s guts? I had thought of the thrill of battle, galloping toward the enemy. Beyond that—to kill? To see a man die by my sword?

Denisov moved his horse beside Alcides and grasped my hand. I felt the roughness of his skin, as callused as a field hand’s. He moved my fingers around the hilt of the sword, arranging my hand properly. I noticed he let his hand linger on mine. I felt his warmth and sinewy strength.

He reined his horse even closer until Alcides’s shoulder met his horse’s. His leg brushed mine.

“Then you must keep the blade above your head, giving full range to your blow or to the charge. If your arms are too weak to lift it sufficiently, you must lower it and let blood rush to your arms. To swing the blade as low as you do is dangerous. It is only a matter of time before you gash yourself, Aleksandr Vasilevich. Or worse yet, this marvelous horse.”

“I will not harm Alcides!” I said.

“Then practice cautiously, Aleksandr. And often.”

I held the sword over my head, swinging it as I had seen my father and the cavalry soldiers do so many times. My arms began to tremble.

Denisov made a deep grunt of disapproval, seeing my right arm and shoulder shake with fatigue.

“Aleksandr Vasilevich, you have led a soft life in your noble house,” said Denisov. “Lower your weapon before you hurt yourself. You are no Cossack!”

“I do not wish to be a Cossack,” I said stubbornly. “I will join a regular Hussar regiment.”

“Hussars? Oh, Aleksandr, you dream large,” said Denisov. “Which one?”

Of course I had no idea. I had only wanted to escape home and join the cavalry.

“I do not know yet. I haven’t chosen.”

“Ah, they must choose you, my little friend,” he said, laughing. “You are nobility. I suppose the captains will let you join. But . . .”

“But what?”

“Aleksandr Vasilevich, you have so much to learn. The captains and colonels will have no time to look out for you in the heat of battle. They cannot coddle you the way our Cossack colonel has done.”

“I do not mean to be coddled!”

“You won’t survive a day in battle.”

He was right. Not only would I die, but my beloved Alcides would suffer for my incompetence.

I looked up at him.

“And you, Denisov? Where will you go?”

“After I return to my village for leave, we go to Vilna and on to the border on the Niemen River.”

“Then I suppose I shall never see you again, Denisov.”

He did not speak for a moment but watched over my shoulder as the last of the Cossacks rode off. The two horses touched heads, Alcides flicking his ears back.

“I should report to the colonel and take my leave,” he said.

“We are bivouacking one more night,” I said.

Then what? How would I ever make my way north alone to join with a regular regiment? I had little money and did not know how to survive on the land. Winter was approaching, and while it did not snow until December on the Don, the snows would be deep beyond the steppe.

My chest tightened.

“Can’t I go with you?” I blurted.

A flash of incomprehension shot across the Cossack’s face.

“I wouldn’t be any trouble, and—”

“You are not a Cossack!” he said. “You know that is impossible!”

“I . . . I . . .” I had no words.

Denisov listened to my breath, a trace of a smile on his lips. He watched my chest heave under my tunic. His eyes climbed from my tunic to my face, his green eyes scrutinizing me.

“You are not even a man. Why don’t you go home, little Aleksandrova?” he whispered. “You are brave, but the emperor would not wish a girl to die in battle with Napoleon.”

“How dare you, sir? I am not a girl,” I stuttered. “You! You—You take back your insult!”

Denisov’s green eyes sparkled mischievously at me. With his hand around my shoulders, he pulled me close, close enough I could smell the tang of his perspiration, tobacco on his breath.

“You may fool some of the men, but certainly not me. But then . . .”

“Then what? Then what?” I demanded.

“I know women better than you think,” he said. He pressed his lips to mine hard. I tasted the salty warmth of his mouth.

I made a move with my sword. He struck the hilt with the flat of his hand, knocking the weapon out of my grip.

The saber clattered to the ground, making Alcides jump. Denisov grabbed my reins, steadying my horse.

“Ah, little Aleksandrova! The next lesson is to learn to keep your thumb in the thumb ring at all times you bear arms!” he laughed.

He dropped my reins and spurred his horse, riding off to the hill. And soon, like all the other Cossacks, he disappeared, returning home.

I rode Alcides back to the colonel’s tent. Now that the hundreds of Don Cossacks had disappeared over the hills, I felt a wave of loneliness, even desperation.

What was I to do now?

The colonel was sipping tea when I walked into the tent.

“Aleksandr Vasilevich, I haven’t the heart to let you go out on your own to certain destruction,” he said. “You are the youngest, most inexperienced soldier I have ever known.”

I bristled but then thought of the lonely miles ahead, trying to find my way to Grodno. I did not know the road, had little money, and wasn’t sure I could even find forage for Alcides. I would starve myself first rather than let my poor horse suffer.

“The marauders would murder you for your horse the first day! Remain here on the Don. You can stay with my wife while I go to join Ataman Matvej Platov in Cherkassk. My stable is at your disposal. You will not be bored.”

I wasn’t certain whether to be grateful or insulted.

“When I return, our unit will head north and you can travel with us again to join the regular army. It will not be long. Agreed?”

“Thank you for your offer,” I said reluctantly. “I do not want to put Alcides’s life at risk.”

The colonel laughed and tousled my hair with his rough hand.

“You are a brave lad, Aleksandr. And you value that good horse,” he said. “But you are certainly wet behind the ears!

“Come, I will introduce you to my wife. She will care well for you. You will see!”

We rode into the colonel’s village. At the outskirts, there were earth and dung brick huts, whitewashed and roofed with tin or thatch. They were surrounded by wattle fences that confined their poultry and other livestock.