The Girl Who Fought Napoleon: A Novel of the Russian Empire (18 page)

Chapter 25

St. Petersburg

October 1805

Tsar Alexander left a candle burning by his camp bed. He watched the wax melt and puddle, nearly submerging the wick in its translucent pool. Sleet and snow spat against the windows, rattling the crystal panes.

How I hate them
,
these generals. These conspirators who murdered my father in cold blood. I cannot abide even their smell, their knowing looks
.
They rekindle that night’s horror with every regard, every sour breath we share in a closed room.

Alexander’s hands twisted the sheets. The flickering candle cast absurd shadows against the wall.

Their vile hands, saluting me. Hands that killed my father, bludgeoned him to death, strangled him.

One by one, advisors and generals, the conspirators vanished from Moscow and St. Petersburg. Pahlen was exiled to Courland on the Baltic Sea, while Panin and two other senior officers were banished from St. Petersburg. Nikolai Zubov, who had slammed the gold snuffbox against Tsar Paul’s right temple, was deported from Russia.

But a few would remain in Alexander’s army as generals. He needed them, their experience in the battlefield.

Still their eyes, lifted from maps of battlefields, would meet his own.
Remember! Remember that March night we murdered your father . . .

He stared down at their hands, fingers pointing out knolls and valleys, vantage points to defeat Napoleon.

These men forever haunted him with memories. But he needed them to defeat France. For love of Russia he would endure them, for they were good military men.

But he would never forget. His fingers sought the small cloth bag he always carried. The well-worn paper within rustled at his touch.

Austria had been a fickle ally to Russia. Still a coalition had been struck and Alexander’s young general aide-de-camp, Prince Peter Dolgoruky, had insisted that because of the alliance, it was certain that Russia and Austria could defeat Napoleon on the Austrian border.

Adam Czartoryski did not trust Dolgoruky and had a visceral dislike for the prince, whom he considered a braggart and a sycophant willing to spill Russian blood in pursuit of glory and honor.

Czartoryski begged the Tsar to delay making a commitment to ally and fight with Austria. In the Tsar’s tent, they argued late into the night. Soldiers watched two silhouettes moving in animated discussion against the yellow, lantern-lit canvas.

“May I join the discussion, Your Majesty?” said Prince Dolgoruky, pulling back the flap.

Czartoryski scowled at the aide-de-camp, who was fast becoming a favorite confidant of Alexander’s.

“Focus more on your reforms within Russia,” he continued, ignoring the intruder. “We have much to do within the country. Tsar, you cannot rely on Austria as a steadfast friend. Nor on Frederick William of Prussia. Insist on a right of passage through the Germanic lands. If they deny Russian troops access to defend us all from Napoleon, seize Berlin. But do not commit Russia’s forces to Prussia. As a sovereign and commander, the king is rash—”

“Nonsense!” said Prince Dolgoruky. “You speak like a Pole, while I speak as a Russian prince. I know what you are thinking: ‘Seize Berlin.’ Of course. Then you will attempt to persuade Our Majesty to make Berlin the center of your glorious independent republic of Poland.”

“We will only ask for access for troop movement,” said Czartoryski. “How can Prussia deny such a request when asking for an alliance?”

Dolgoruky turned to the Tsar. “I beg you, Your Majesty, do not listen to a Pole’s counsel. Napoleon will be defeated with the Austro-Russian alliance. And with the help of the Prussians—”

“The Austrians!” said Czartoryski. “Ha! The Austrians will be absorbed into Napoleon’s empire like a hare swallowed by a python. Austria sneers at Russia as barbarians—they would think nothing of deserting you, Your Majesty, in your hour of need.”

“Really, Prince Czartoryski,” said Alexander. “I think you greatly exaggerate.”

“Exaggerate? Your Majesty, those Austrian generals who strut about like overstuffed peacocks will one day meet us as foes on the battlefield, greeting us with their shiny cannons under Napoleon’s command. Mark my words.”

“Do not listen to this Polish rebel, Your Majesty,” said Prince Dolgoruky. “What bad counsel he gives, especially as foreign minister of Russia!”

Alexander could not make a decision. His mind was in turmoil.

What would Peter the Great do? Blast it! I do not know whom to trust.

Czartoryski fumed silently. He could see the vacillation in Alexander’s eyes.

“You are dismissed, Minister Czartoryski,” said Alexander.

When Czartoryski had left the tent, Prince Dolgoruky whispered to the Tsar: “You cannot listen to him, I beg of you. You are the all-powerful Tsar of Russia, and Czartoryski’s allegiance will always remain with his native Poland. Send me in the future to deal with Napoleon. I will let him know not to trifle with a descendent of Peter the Great!”

Two days before his departure to Austria, Alexander visited a venerable mystic, Sevastianov. This Russian starets lived in a small hovel on the Gulf of Finland.

Sevastianov welcomed the Tsar but forbade him to enter with his guards or footmen. Alone, Alexander crossed the humble threshold, ducking low so as not to hit his head on the door frame. The hermit’s dark sanctuary smelled of sea and sweat, for the monk was not prone to bathing, no matter the season.

A tallow candle was lit in honor of the Tsar, for the starets was poor and thrifty. The tallow made the Tsar cough, the rendered fat smoking thick and black.

Sevastianov served the Tsar a tea infusion of berries: whortleberries, blackberries, wild strawberries, and some other wild fruit. There was a tartness that the Tsar did not recognize, and when he inquired, the starets only shrugged.

“Your Excellency, forgive me,” he said, exposing the gaps in his teeth. “We have our mysteries. Now, my Tsar, please tell me why you honor me with this visit.”

Alexander looked about the hovel, drying grasses, herbs, and flowers hanging overhead like an upside-down garden. Roses of all colors gave off a heady fragrance.

I read Voltaire, Kant, Hobbes, Rousseau. I correspond with Thomas Jefferson. To spurn superstition is the hallmark of a liberal education. Why do I return to the Orthodox Church to visit an obscure starets?

“I ask you, Starets Sevastianov, will I defeat Napoleon?”

The mystic looked unblinking past the smoke, his eyes unfocused.

The starets spread his hands wide, like two white starfish in dark waters.

“No. Your time has not come,” Sevastianov said, startlingly loud. His voice reverberated in the low-ceilinged room.

Alexander set down his teacup, his brow set in deep furrows.

“I am to be forgiven, I hope, Your Excellency,” said the hermit, crossing his hands over his breast. “My Tsar seeks truth. The truth is this: the accursed Frenchman will beat you and destroy your army. You will have to flee in shame. Wait. Get stronger. Your hour will come. Then God will help you destroy the enemy of mankind.”

Alexander took another sip of the tart brew, making a face. The strange man said no more.

Ah, but the die is cast! Napoleon has already occupied Vienna, crossed the Danube as far as Brunn. The Corsican wolf is nearly at Russia’s front door. Besides, my advisors—other than that recalcitrant Czartoryski!—have endorsed our march against the French usurper.

Alexander cast his eyes about the hovel. There were only a few icons set in the corners, darkened with soot. A string of prayer beads, a simple washbasin carved of wood. A straw pallet and coarse wool blanket lay a stride away. The Tsar leaned back in the crude birchwood chair, making it creak.

He blinked at the queer little monk through the smoke. Despite Sevastianov’s unwelcome words, Alexander felt a quiet peace. He lingered over his simple wild-berry infusion in a chipped cup, his eyes taking in the rustic setting.

Alexander’s fingers reached inside his breast pocket.

“Starets, I have a coded note. I’ve never been able to decipher it, though I have had trusted advisors and mathematicians try. Would you look at it?”

“Of course, my Tsar.”

Alexander unfolded the paper, putting it into the mystic’s hands.

There was a long moment of silence.

“Can you understand anything about it?”

Sevastianov shook his head slowly. “Who wrote it?”

“My father, Tsar Paul. The night of his murder.”

Sevastianov glanced up at the Tsar. “This is what I can tell you, Your Majesty. This letter signifies a great deal to you. The letters written here: AP. Of course they refer to Your Majesty, Alexander Pavlovich.”

Alexander started.

“Keep this letter close to your heart. Do not show it to others,” said the starets. “What’s done is done. It is for you only to decode, Your Majesty.”

Sevastianov passed the letter back to the Tsar. Alexander stared at the mystic.

“Tell me, Starets,” said the Tsar. “What is life like for you here?”

Sevastianov’s eyes sparkled now. He leaned forward, his voice full of joy.

“I have never known such contentment.” He stroked his white beard. “I am with God day and night. Imagine my joy!”

“Thank you, Sevastianov,” said Alexander, rising, though he longed to linger in the hermit’s cabin. There was a palpable peace that hovered in the air, despite the smells of dirty linen and tallow.

Instead, Alexander’s nose sought the pervading odor of the dried roses overhead, dangling from the ceiling.

He let out a great sigh of satisfaction.

“Perhaps we will meet again, Sevastianov.”

“In God’s kingdom surely,” answered the hermit, snuffing the candle. “If not before. Until then, my Tsar, may the Lord guide you. And Russia.”

Chapter 26

Austerlitz, Holy Roman Empire

December 1805

Alexander listened to Prince Dolgoruky’s advice, but he did not entirely forget Czartoryski’s either. Two Russian armies had amassed on the western border. The first—fifty thousand troops—was commanded by General Mikhail Ilarionovich Kutuzov. The second—ninety thousand troops—under the command of General Mikhelson stood at the ready to fight against Prussia if necessary, should it not willingly allow the Russian troops to cross its borders.

The Tsar left St. Petersburg on a morning so shrouded in fog that he could not see the Neva from his office at the Winter Palace. Alexander shivered as he thought of the starets’s prophecy.

Despite the starets’s words, good fortune awaited the Tsar in Prussia. Napoleon had invaded southern Germany. Outraged, King Frederick William III invited Russia’s troops to cross Prussia’s borders to fight their common enemy.

Alexander was feted with an elaborate reception in the Prussian Court. Queen Louise, famous for her beauty and notorious for her sexual appetite, was taken by the young Tsar, declaring him “perfection among men.”

While Alexander was flattered by her attentions, he was more interested in cultivating a strong alliance with Prussia than bedding the Prussian queen.

“I propose a toast,” he said, lifting his glass of Riesling. “To your predecessor. To the spirit of Frederick the Great, one of the finest warriors of all time.”

The three lifted their glasses, the two Prussian royals naturally flattered.

Alexander, smiled, drinking deeply. Replacing his glass on the table he regarded his hosts.

“I wish to pay the great man homage. In person.”

There was silence in the dining room except for the hiss and creak of the enormous ceramic stove.

Queen Louise, her face flushed with warmth, wine, and love, asked, “Homage? What do you mean, Your Excellency?”

The fatigue of travel and the sweet Prussian wines may be coaxing me from reason. Is it the ghost of my father who drives me to pay respects to a dead man?

Am I honoring Frederick? Or my murdered father?

The candle flames blew sideways, a sudden draft chilling the room. Queen Louise pulled her ermine collar tighter around her neck.

“I wish to bow my head in prayer at the foot of Frederick the Great’s tomb. And pay my respects to the man my forefathers held in such high esteem.”

King Frederick William raised his eyebrows. Alexander studied his face.

“Of course!” the Prussian king said, his chin lifting from his stiff collar in assent. “What a great honor you do Prussia. We shall visit the crypt right after dessert.”

A pale-faced Queen Louise cloaked in black accompanied the Tsar and the king across the empty courtyards of the Potsdam castle to the churchyard. She had imagined Alexander in her warm bed in the throes of lust, not in a cold tomb! As the spell of champagne slowly ebbed, the beautiful queen shivered at the thought of visiting a long-dead corpse.

The three descended by torchlight into the crypt. Resting his head on the foot of the tomb, Alexander paid his respects to the man his father had so revered. He kissed the tomb, saying, “Frederick the Great, good friend to my father, grandfather, and Russia, aid us now in our fight against the Grand Armée and Napoleon.”

The king and the Tsar solemnly swore an oath.

“To the mutual defense of Russia and Prussia!” said Alexander, his words echoing in the musty vault.

He could feel the cold hand of his dead father, clapping him on the back. Then he thought of the ominous words of the queer little hermit, Sevastianov, and he shivered.