The Girl Who Fought Napoleon: A Novel of the Russian Empire (21 page)

I climbed up my horse’s neck, kissing his ears. He was so exhausted from lack of feed and verst upon verst of hard riding, he allowed me to caress him.

“How could I doubt you, old friend?” I murmured. I gave him his rein once again. He felt the looseness of contact and broke into a gallop toward the encampment with a roaring neigh that resonated through my entire body.

When we reached the camp, my platoon was already mounted and prepared to move out.

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

Alcides, despite his hunger and fatigue, neighed with gusto, taking his place among the ranks. He—and I—were back with the herd. We had survived.

Wyszemirski and my other comrades’ faces lit up when they saw me. Wyszemirski leaned over his skittish horse to clap me on the back.

“We thought you done for,” he said. The others in the regiment nodded solemnly, for many of our men had indeed been lost forever.

After a few versts we stopped to water our horses at a stream. Alcides sucked up the water, his ribs working under me like a giant bellows.

A corporal rode up to me. “Durov! The sergeant major orders you to report to him immediately.”

I exchanged looks with Wyszemirski. He just shook his head.

“You do foolish things, Durov!” the sergeant major roared. “You won’t keep your head on your shoulders. You gave away your horse on the battlefield. You left yourself exposed like a rabbit amongst a pack of wolves! You went to Heilsberg, requesting only minutes to tack on a shoe on your horse and what? You fell asleep? With the French pounding artillery all around you?”

“Sir, I—”

“I do not care how old you are. There are some standards of sense that are required no matter whether you are seventeen or seventy. I advise you to stay on your horse, who is a great deal more intelligent than you are. Die on your horse, Durov. Die with honor or you will be taken prisoner, murdered by marauders, or worst of all, considered a coward. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

I left in the persistent rain that drenched me. I had not eaten in two days and had ridden through the night and now day. Having lost my wool great coat along with my other belongings in my saddlebags, I suffered mightily with the wet weather, shivering with spasms that rocked my body.

We rode three abreast but when we approached an obstacle such as a narrow bridge we negotiated it single file. During these halts I took advantage of the delay by dismounting Alcides and throwing myself on the ground to catch a few moments sleep. My comrades would call to me to mount as we proceeded.

I dragged my oak lance with me, pulling myself up weary with exhaustion.

The sergeant major saw these interludes and shouted at me. Even my comrades were angry, for we were all exhausted.

“Look at us, Durov,” Wyszemirski said. “We too are sleep deprived. Do what we do and sleep in the saddle. Knot your fingers into your horse’s mane.”

“Next time you dismount we won’t wake you,” grunted Oleg. “Stay mounted, Durov. We won’t be covering for you any longer.”

“If you die, there will be no extra ration of vodka for me,” said Kosmy Banka, wagging his big head sadly. “Take care of yourself, Durov. I’m fond of the drink.”

“All right,” I said, though my eyes were so swollen with lack of sleep I could barely make out my comrades.

I stayed in the saddle throughout the night. I mistook trees for uhlans and uhlans for trees. I buried my face in Alcides’s mane, waking with a jolt. Several times I found long strands of my horse’s mane in my teeth, his neck wet from my saliva.

At dawn we at last came to a halt.

“You may kindle small fires to heat your kasha,” said the sergeant major.

I had nothing to eat but lay down to sleep by our fire for my ten campmates.

“No sleeping, Durov!” said Wyszemirski. “The sergeant major ordered us to let the horses graze in the pasture. Take the curb bit from your horse’s mouth and lead him to the grass.”

Horses came first. My responsibility—my life—depended on Alcides.

The grass was thick with dew. I huddled in a ball, pulling my knees tight to my chest to try to warm myself.

“What the devil is wrong with you, Durov?” asked Wyszemirski, losing his patience. “Are you ill?”

“No, I am chilled until death! I lost my greatcoat with my saddlebags. The Cossacks sold the horse but kept my supplies.”

“This won’t do,” said Wyszemirski. “You are the youngest among us. A Russian cavalryman cannot survive without a greatcoat. Here, go speak to the sergeant major. There are bundles of greatcoats gathered from dead soldiers on the battlefield. They are on the wagon train. He can procure you one.”

All I could do was shiver an acknowledgment.

“Look, I will look after Alcides. And here,” he said digging in his pocket, retrieving a green-tinged piece of hardtack. “Here is a rusk to eat, but I have very little myself. You go now and speak to the sergeant major.”

But there was no time to approach him. He was meeting with the other officers and within an hour’s time, we were ordered back into our ranks.

As we marched, the sun came out drying my uniform. I turned my face up to the sky, my throat warming in the sun. If only I had something more to eat!

At the next rest I walked Alcides into the grassy meadow along with the rest of the uhlans. A few old seasoned men pulled out hard rinds of cheese to eat. Their old teeth bit into their food and they smacked their lips. My knees were weak with hunger.

I began searching on my hands and knees for wild berries in the grass. When I found a few, I stuffed them into my mouth with greedy hands.

The sergeant major rode his horse among us, checking the condition of the horses. He saw me rooting through the grass, my face smeared with purple juice from the few berries I had found.

“What are you doing?”

“Searching for berries, sir.”

“Have you nothing else to eat?”

Wyszemirski, hearing the conversation, answered for me.

“Sergeant Major—no, Durov has nothing at all. His supplies were confiscated by the Cossacks. He has no greatcoat, no food. Nothing but the bare saddle.”

The sergeant major raised his eye to the heavens and gave an exasperated sigh. “Follow me. I will see that you are fed enough, you two whelps. How you wiggled your way into the army is beyond me. Well, come along.”

“And us?” grumbled one of the older uhlans. “You provide this useless child food and we who carry our weight, nothing?”

“You old fools!” shouted the sergeant major. “You may be seasoned soldiers, but why do we fight a war if we cannot care for our Russian children? Look at these two—they should be playing at home, not fighting a battle!”

This gruff man now smiled at us.

“Come along, children. You will dine on soup, roast meat. Ah! And white bread.”

Chapter 30

Friedland, Prussia

June 1807

With my belly full on officers’ food, I grew warm and drowsy. The sergeant major had given me a greatcoat that was a few sizes too big but made of tightly woven wool. I thought of the big man who must have worn it before me.

The cold rains ceased, the skies cleared, and I soon had no need of the coat. In fact, as summer in the interior of Russia often can be, it was now unbearably hot. I stashed my new coat in my kit bag and took Alcides back out to graze again.

The flies buzzed now in the heat, attracted by the horses’ sweat and dung. The insects’ buzzing and our mounts’ snorts were a lullaby to me, as I had not had any real sleep in days. I closed my eyes.

I woke to hear “Curb your horse!” the call to tack up and mount immediately. The uhlans around me bridled their horses, swinging up on their backs.

Alcides was nowhere to be seen!

The sergeant major was already mounted and inspecting the uhlans as they rode into formation. I caught sight of a strange movement in the river just beyond the ranks, a dark form breaking the ripples of the current.

Alcides was swimming to the far bank.

“Why are you standing there without your horse, Durov?” shouted the sergeant major.

I looked up at the officer and ran to the river. With my bridle over one shoulder slung from right to left I swam toward my horse.

The water soaking my jacket and boots threatened to drag me under. The river carried me downstream as I struggled against the current. I pulled myself to shore, exhausted. Alcides, who had reached the other bank before me, walked over to me, water sluicing off his back.

I stretched up my arm when he bowed his head toward me. My fingers entwined in his mane and he pulled me to standing. With quivering hands I slipped the curb bit into his mouth and mounted. We had to ford the river again to reach the ranks of soldiers.

I chewed my lip thinking of the admonishment from my superior officer.

As I rode into my rank, water puddling under Alcides’s belly, the sergeant major said, “Well, at least that was a plucky recovery.” He was smiling.

As we rode toward Friedland we passed through the village of Schippenbeil. Great God, what a horror! The houses were charred heaps of splinter and ash, and pottery shards littered the road. We tried to avoid treading upon the sharp bits and smoking embers to protect our horses’ feet, though this proved difficult in formation.

Not a soul remained there. How many had been burned to death?

I exchanged looks with Wyszemirski. His pale blue eyes stared, haunted.

Friedland—just that simple word still chills my blood.

Half our regiment was pulled under this great tide of battle, a surging sea of bullets, cannonballs, bayonets, grapeshot. We advanced, we retreated, we reformed ranks, noting the comrades who were missing. We advanced again, each time washing back on shore from the sea of battle, bloodied and diminished. The shrill whine of bullets unnerved me. Alcides galloped on, shying when solid banks of dirt were thrown up by cannonballs, racing through the whizzing bullets. The sky was gray with lead.

How puny were we with our oak lances, we uhlans! Yes, we charged ahead at a gallop, usually pitting cavalry against cavalry. But it was the infantrymen who won or lost the battles for us. Oh, our vainglorious charges, lances fixed or sabers gleaming. But we slew so few in comparison with our brave infantry! They marched into the field shoulder to shoulder, their eyes trained on their enemy. Their faces were set with intense determination, resigned to kill or be killed. The cords strained in their necks, veins pumped blue, the bone of their jaws defined in battle. What advances they reaped defined our regiment’s glory and honor or shameful losses and ultimate defeat. Either way I stared down in horror from my horse to see fallen bodies bleeding in the mud.

Grapeshot and bullets showered us, but they were nothing to the nightmarish roar of the cannons. In an instant, five or more of our uhlans and horses were blasted sideways. I shielded my eyes as Alcides reared and whinnied. Bits of earth, pieces of leather from their saddles, hit us. The uhlans lay on the ground, some dead outright, and others crawling blindly toward their dead or wounded horses.

A fellow uhlan still rode, his head wounded and bandaged from a previous injury. He rode in circles, clearly out of his mind. We trotted up to him and I asked him which squadron he was from. He could not remember and swayed like a drunk in the saddle, at the verge of toppling to the ground. I tied his reins to Alcides’s neck and with one arm tried to pull him toward me as we rode side by side. I brought him to the river, where I hoped the cold water would refresh him, bringing him to his senses.

When I let go of him, he toppled out of the saddle to the muddy shore.

Gunfire and cannonballs whistled all around us. The pennons of my squadron were no longer in sight. I felt a frantic twist in my gut, a cold shiver of fear. But I could not leave this comrade to die.

I dismounted, ducking low, and filled my helmet with water, pouring it over the wounded man’s head. The water diluted the blood and it ran down his face, coloring his pale skin and collar a rosy pink.

“Oh, God have mercy on me, lad! Do not abandon me here! I will get on my horse somehow.”

I could barely hear him through the gunfire and explosions. I cupped my ear, struggling to make out what he said.

“Just walk me back behind the army’s lines,” he said. “God will reward your human kindness!”

With great difficulty, mustering every muscle I could command, I managed to help him up on his horse, the poor beast bleeding profusely from under its belly. I took his reins, leading him alongside Alcides back to Friedland.

The few remaining denizens of Friedland were fleeing. Soldiers—some of them deserters from the battlefield—screamed, “Flee! Save yourselves. All is lost!” I scowled at them—how they terrorized the civilians who were already horror-stricken.

It wasn’t until I saw the caissons retreating that I realized what the first wave of soldiers was saying was true. Our Russian army had been defeated—badly.

Now I was alone without my squadron and with a critically wounded comrade.

As I watched the artillery pieces pass, I turned to him.

“Would you consent to traveling on a caisson? You won’t be able to stay astride your horse much longer.”

He nodded, a pathetic jerk of his neck.

I pulled him and his horse along with us as I sought the artillery commander through the rising dust and smoke.

“Will you let this wounded man ride along in the wagon? Will you take along his horse, wounded?”

“Yes, of course,” said the mustached commander. “Sergeant! Move this man to that wagon. Spread out a blanket. See that his horse is taken care of.”

The uhlan smiled weakly to me, then grimaced as two men pulled him down from his horse and carried him like a sack of potatoes to the wagon.

As he disappeared, I was swept with such joy as I had not experienced since I left home. The freedom! I no longer had the burden of a wounded comrade. Now I had no one to care for but myself and Alcides. But where to find my squadron in the retreat?

I followed the road out of Friedland along with the retreating army. For hours, I asked everyone where my squadron might be. Some said they thought I should continue to look farther ahead and others said my comrades had turned left off the road just beyond Friedland.

Nightfall was approaching. I had to give Alcides a rest and a chance to graze. Alongside the road I saw a group of Cossacks around a small fire.

“Friends! May I spend the night next to your fire?”

“Yes, of course,” said the oldest Cossack. “You may share in our kasha as well.” He handed me a carved spoon made of birchwood.

“God bless you. I want to water my horse first,” I said dismounting. “I need to let him graze as well. But he will wander, I’ve learned that.”

“Then do what we do, uhlan! Wrap a rope around his legs to hobble him and then tether that to your arm. If he wanders he will wake you up when the strap goes taut. He will pull you out of a dreamless sleep!”

The other Cossacks squatting around the fire grunted a laugh.

“Don’t expect us to wake you. We will leave before dawn, ulhan,” said the old man.

I thanked him for his advice and went to the stream to let Alcides have a long cool drink. I searched my pockets but I had nothing that resembled a rope to tether.

Then I thought of my handkerchiefs, the ones my Ukrainian grandmother had embroidered. I took them out, long and elegant, made of white linen. I cherished them among the few belongings I had from my past. But I would have to sacrifice them now.

I tied them end to end, making a tether. In the meantime, the old Cossack filled my bowl with kasha.

The kasha was toasty hot and filled my cold belly. I heard the bloody tales of the battle, how the French had thrashed our armies into retreat.

“Are you with Don Cossacks?” I asked, though by the way they were dressed, I was fairly sure.

“Yes,” said the youngest, who stoked the fire. “You know Cossacks?”

“I rode with a regiment from Sarapul to Grodno.”

Four pairs of eyes flashed at me.

“You? You rode with the army of the Don?”

“Impossible,” grumbled one. “This one is a liar!”

“As far as Grodno. I met a scout who was with Ataman Platov’s regiment. Anatoli Denisov.”

Now all the dark eyes burned across the glow of the fire.

“Denisov!” said the one who had accused me of being a liar. “Denisov is a brave man. You knew him?”

“We heard he was injured in Friedland,” said another. “A bullet through his shoulder blade.”

“Is he all right?” I asked, startled to hear my voice rise an octave like the girl I was.

“We do not know if he survived or not,” said the eldest.

My eyelids had grown swollen and heavy. I was dog tired and the thought of Denisov dying on the battlefield along with so many others made me feel lonely and empty inside, like a sack turned inside out.

I felt a compression in my chest, a nagging ache. I reached for my chest with my right arm, rubbing it.

The old Cossack said, “Get some sleep, soldier. You have seen too much, too young.”

I spread out my greatcoat on the ground a little ways from the Cossacks where I could still see the glowing embers in the darkness. I did not take off Alcides’s saddle because in the precarious position of a retreat, I needed to be able to mount at a second’s notice. But I did loosen the girth as much as I dared. I tied the kerchief to Alcides’s forelegs making a loop and then tied the trailing end to my arm.

The night was starless and as dark as the inside of a coal stove. I fell asleep immediately. When I awoke, the Cossacks had already left. Their horses were gone.

And so was Alcides.