The Girl Who Fought Napoleon: A Novel of the Russian Empire (29 page)

“You heard Lieutenant Alexandrov,” affirmed Captain Tornesi. “He’s next in command. Get on your feet. That’s an order.”

Reluctantly they walked out in the pouring rain. When they returned at the end of the day without hay or grain, I realized it would be my turn as soon as Captain Podjampolsky returned and I surrendered my temporary command.

It was my luck that Podjampolsky returned the very next day. Czerniawski and Cesar Tornesi slapped me on the back, wishing me luck.

“You’ll find forage, Alexandrov. Anyone would take pity on your baby face,” they joked.

In the Russian army, officers could requisition oats with vouchers, payable at headquarters for money. At least in theory. But landowners knew it wasn’t that easy to get paid and they needed what little stores they had for their own estates.

I went from one estate to another. The Poles had hidden their grain and negotiation was fruitless. I became more and more agitated realizing that Napoleon had already crossed the Niemen and that we were stuck in a muddy village, unable to move because we had no forage for our horses.

Wars are won and lost by such factors—without fit horses we would never defeat Napoleon.

I pushed on further up the road.

It was then I noticed the smoke. I should have been aware of it long before, but my preoccupation with finding fodder distracted me.

Billowing black clouds lay ahead, a horizon of flames.

I rode a verst more and came across a landowner of about sixty. He had a sad cast about him, his blue eyes blurred with tears.

I asked him about the fires, but he didn’t answer me directly.

“Come in lad,” he said, instead. “I will make you a cup of tea—the samovar is bubbling. Sit at the table with me.”

I thanked him for his trouble, taking a seat at an elegant birchwood dining table. I ran my hand across the grain, admiring it.

My host noticed me.

“Poets say that a Russian’s heart is made of birch. There is no more noble tree.”

“I have loved them,” I admitted. “Since I was a child.”

He watched me, his head slightly cocked as if he were listening to a faint tune.

“They are a soft wood at heart and burn fast,” he said.

I thought this a curious remark because birch is actually quite hard but said nothing.

“I know why you are here,” he said, his eyes lost again in sorrow. “My, you are young. My son’s age, I would reckon. You are here to find grain for your horses.”

“How did you know?”

“Your colleagues were here a few days before. I had rolling fields of oats, barley, and rye. Oh, you should see the rye in the summer. My son would ride through the fields on his stallion. You could barely see his cap.”

I withdrew the vouchers from my pocket.

“I will buy all the grain you can sell me.”

He waved away the vouchers. “Useless,” he said. “My fields have been burned. Napoleon is coming. Our generals have ordered the crops destroyed rather than feed a marching French army as we retreat.”

“Oh,” I said, confused. “Forgive me. I must go—”

“I wish you would stay, young man. My son was fighting near Vilna, on the front lines against Napoleon. They brought his body back in a wagon. I buried him yesterday.”

At this those faded blue eyes finally shed their tears. They fell one by one on the birchwood table.

The next day I found a fierce retired cavalry officer. He knew the fate of his neighbors, how the fields were being burnt to starve out Napoleon.

“But I still have oats and rye. The torch has not been set on my fields and I have some stores set by,” he said, twisting the ends of his mustache. “And what will you give for them?”

“I have vouchers,” I said.

“Vouchers,” he said, snorting. “Useless pieces of paper.”

“It is all that I have,” I answered.

“And if I refuse, what will you do?”

He knew full well that I had the power to confiscate the grains for my troops in the name of Mother Russia.

“Nothing,” I said. “I will go back empty handed.”

He stopped fingering his mustache and looked into my eyes. I saw a flicker of patriotism in their depths, a man who loved Russia more than life itself.

“You are younger than I even thought possible,” he said. “
Kochany kolego!
Dear comrade! You have a job to do, Lieutenant Alexandrov. Your horses and their brave riders are all that stand between Napoleon and us. I’ll give you twenty quarters and send you on your way to fight.”

“What about your own needs? Your farm—”

“Our motherland first,” he said, rising from his chair. “We have no time to waste. Take what you need before it is torched.” As he took the first step toward the door, I could see his severe limp.

“I was wounded in both legs in Austerlitz,” he said. “Go slow with me. I’ll point out the fields and storehouses of grain to you and your sergeant. You can start filling your wagons at once.”

Then he turned to me.

“One favor for an old man,” he said. “Stay with me a day or two before your regiment moves out. Your blooming youth, energy, and high spirits remind me of my own soul in the days of my boyhood. I’ll invite the families of the neighboring estates. We all need to remember youth and joy, for hard times lie ahead.”

I bowed my head. I, a girl, reminded this old veteran of his youth on the battlefield. What greater tribute could I ever earn?

I agreed as we walked through the beautiful gardens and blue lake toward the grain fields and the uhlan wagons.

I ordered my uhlans to fill their wagons at his granaries. I listened to the rustle of dried oats spilled against the wooden planks. I rubbed my eyes, the stinging soot of burning fields make me cry.

Chapter 44

Belarus and Eastern Poland

July 1812

Our regiment had been ordered to join the Russian Second Army under General Petr Bagration to defend the southern frontiers. With a five-hundred-kilometer border where the French might have entered Russia, Napoleon had chosen the Niemen and driven a wedge between our forces. Our First Army, standing alone under General Barclay de Tolly, had been forced to retreat, overpowered without the Second Army’s support. Divide and conquer. That was Napoleon’s way. The generals of the two Russian armies were desperate to regroup.

Our regiment was stationed on alert on the banks of the Narew River, west of the Second Army’s position near Volkovysk.

We were quartered in a tiny village. Every night, half of the squadron stood guard in the village while the other half rode out on patrol. We slept during the day—or should I say we closed our eyes. True sleep was hard to come by.

Those July evenings my senses were sharpened. I listened hard, through the constant chirp of the crickets, the gurgle and flow of the river, ebbing against the banks. My eyes peered through the moonlight that gleamed on the ghostly white birch. We listened, waiting for the jingle of caissons, the creak of cannons over the rutted roads, the snort of horses. Our eyes strained in the darkness for the flicker of campfires. I sniffed the air for smoke when I walked alone to wash in the creek.

I submerged myself in the black water shadowed under birch trees. The leaves trembled overhead, etched above me where they were bathed in moonlight.

I knew it was only a matter of time before Napoleon destroyed our peace. I thought of how my life had changed since that day I rode away from home on Alcides.

Not all injuries come from cannonballs, bullets, and sabers. One afternoon, we passed through a hamlet where our regiment had to cross a little dike. The first detachment encountered some obstacle and halted. We all backed up behind them, crushed by more squadrons coming from behind. Our horses, packed tail to head, began rearing and kicking. We tried to maintain them in position to avoid falling into the steep trenches on either side.

The horse in front of me kicked. His iron shoe slammed into my leg.

The pain! From the recesses of my soul I gasped.

When we made it to camp, I removed my boot. My leg was bloody, bruised, swollen. It ached from my toe to my knee.

Riding was torture. For the first time in my career I was grateful for the two cups of wine allotted each day to soldiers. Eventually, I had to give in to the pain and I rode in a carriage. But each hour my injury grew more ominous. The skin turned black as coal.

The next night, in camp, I confessed that the pain was unbearable and they called for the regiment physician.

He was a stout man, with a grizzled beard and dirty hands. I winced at his touch as he cut away my lower pant leg to examine my wound.

He grunted.

“Alexandrov. We will have to amputate this leg.

Chapter 45

Kamenny Island, St. Petersburg

August 1812

“Will General de Tolly never stand and fight! Retreat! Retreat! Every report indicates a retreat!” Alexander’s finger rapped the paper in his hand. “Can you explain this, Arakcheyev?”

“De Tolly does not have the army to defeat Napoleon. Not yet,” said the war minister, Count Alexei Arakcheyev. “He draws the enemy further and further into the heartland.”

“And closer and closer to Moscow!” said Alexander. “What game is this?”

“It is a game of saving lives until the Russian army has the advantage.” Count Arakcheyev had known Alexander since he was a small boy. He did not suffer the Tsar’s criticism lightly.

“He is a coward!”

“No, he is shrewd,” said Count Arakcheyev. “Napoleon undoubtedly planned on returning to Paris before midsummer. Now September is only days away. The French supply lines are attacked and destroyed daily, making his return route a wasteland. Napoleon has no forage for his horses and must be dangerously low on food.”

“If Napoleon reaches Moscow—” began Alexander. He could not find words to complete his sentence.

“Before Moscow there is Smolensk,” said Count Arakcheyev. “With its fortified walls, I can think of no better place for our armies to stand and fight.”

Alexander’s stomach clenched to think of Napoleon ever setting foot within the city walls.

Chapter 46

Volkovysk, Belarus

August 1812

“No! No amputation!” I shouted.

Never ride again? Returning home to spend my life enclosed in a house embroidering pillowcases?

“Leave my leg alone!”

I would rather die!

“Have it your way, Lieutenant. I’ve got other soldiers that need my care,” said the doctor, leaving me writhing on the stretcher.

I was alone with my pain. The doctor never came again. A day passed, perhaps more. Then suddenly, amid great commotion, I was carried out of the tent and loaded into a wagon. We set off at a fast clip, jolting over the rough, rutted roads. I screamed in pain, confident that no one could hear me over the drum of hooves, the creaking wood and hinges of the flatbed. I fainted, then regained consciousness and fainted again.

We were retreating.

As days passed, fresh blood slowly returned to my limb, flushing out the blackness.

I returned to mount my horse after ten days, always alert not to jostle against another uhlan’s mount or brush against a tree. I was in anguishing pain but I still had my leg and I could ride.

But just barely.

We lost our beloved regiment commander Tutolmin to sickness. Those dinner dances and fetes of Countess Plater seemed like another lifetime, a glittering fantasy. Now the beautiful Countess Manuzzi would weep forever, her lover and our commander taken from us all.

Another commanding officer took his place, a Lieutenant Colonel Stackelberg from the Novorossiysk Dragoons. He was German, a stickler for rules and regulations. Our company hated him.

After our hasty retreat through a trackless forest we were ordered to stand guard in shoulder-high hemp fields. It was midsummer and the heat rose in puffs from the earth like the breath of a dragon. Under the broiling sun, the green hemp gave off a pungent scent that overwhelmed us.

I rocked sideways in my saddle, about to faint from the heat and the pain throbbing in my leg.

“Alexandrov!” said Colonel Krejts, our brigade commander, riding next to me. “Snap to!”

I grabbed the pommel of my saddle, to avoid tumbling to the ground.

“Sir!” I said.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, sir!”

Krejits ordered me to fetch water with fourteen uhlans under my command.

“It will give you a chance to bathe and refresh,” he said. “And cool your injured leg. But be careful! The enemy is near.”

“If the enemy is near, why aren’t we on the attack?” I demanded, the heat prickling me with irritation.

He waved me off toward the river. “Just wait, Alexandrov. You’ll get your share!”

I ordered the uhlans to fill pots with water, wash, drink, and refresh themselves. I walked upstream a half a verst to undress and plunge into the indescribably delicious water: cool, fresh, a current ebbing against my back, carrying away the dust, aches, and soreness.

My refreshment was short lived. Shots rang out.

I was out of the river and into my clothes in seconds. The last thing I wanted Napoleon to find was a naked Russian girl in the water. I ran back, buttoning my jacket, my feet wet inside my boots. We gathered up the pots of water and returned to our posts.

Colonel Krejits ordered us to remain quiet but alert. That night, I commanded a half squadron on patrol while Podjampolsky kept watch with the others in a village.

I commanded my uhlans to ride on the grass, pressing their sabers to the saddle with their knees to keep them from jingling and with enough space between their horses to keep their stirrups from clanging. My new auxiliary horse Zelant had a bad habit of neighing, but on this deathly dark night he seemed to sense that silence was demanded. He held his breath and trod so lightly I could not hear his hoofbeats.

I stared into the night, the sheds and peasant hovels ominous, deeper black within the dark background. Each could hide an enemy. Our uhlans rode around the hamlet making sure it was quiet, and then we ventured out to the foot of a rocky hill where sentries had been posted.

I chose two uhlans to relieve the sentries and told our bristle-haired sergeant to take command of the rest of the men while I led the replacement sentries up the hill.

As we were getting ready to ride up the hill, the sergeant approached me. I could smell hair oil in the heat of his scalp.

“We hear something in the fields, Your Honor. And shadows keep sweeping across the fields, something looming up. Possibly men on horseback.”

The French! Combat at last . . . and us only a half squadron!

“I need to get these sentries in position above, Sergeant. I leave you in charge of the men. Fire on anyone who fails to give the password when challenged.”

I signaled for the two relief sentries to follow me. We trotted into the darkness, the sergeant’s horse prancing, wanting to follow us.

Once I had inspected our positions and settled the two new sentries into place, I headed down the hill with the two uhlans who had been standing sentry. We moved stealthily, listening for any sign of the enemy.

To my astonishment I saw a figure walking toward me.

“Halt! Who goes there?” I said.

But I already recognized him before he spoke. It was a young Lithuanian soldier I had left at the foot of the hill with the sergeant.

“Why are you on foot! What happened to your horse?” I asked.

“The French attacked us. The sergeant you left in charge ran away. There was nothing we could do. My horse reared and threw me, then ran off.”

“And where the devil are the French?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Find your horse!” I commanded him and rode on with my party of three. As we came out of the woods I spied a group of mounted men milling about in the field. As we rode toward them, I heard them talking among themselves.

They were speaking Russian.

“Who are you?” I challenged them. “What are you doing here?”

“Cossacks,” replied one. “And we were getting ready to chase you down and attack you. You ran away from us just now! Like cowardly French.”

“That was not me, it was part of the squadron I left on sentry.”

“Fine sentries!” scoffed the Cossack. “They all fled! If you had not hailed us, we would have struck you down with our lances.”

“We were all set to give you a warm welcome!” sneered an older Cossack.

Damned Cossacks!

“Our uhlan lances are harder than yours,” I answered, gritting my teeth, “and our regiment is close at hand!”

I left the Cossacks, chagrined.

I could already envision the dispatch to headquarters, reaching the hands of the Tsar: “A picket under the command of Lieutenant Alexandrov was routed by the enemy who, by this action, broke through the forward line of the vedettes.” How he would tremble in rage, in humiliation having given his name to me, thinking, “That damned Lieutenant Alexandrov is either a coward or a blockhead who let himself be routed without defending himself or alerting the reserves.”

I crumpled in my saddle remembering the Tsar’s words
: Even the shadow of a spot on the name of Alexander will never be forgiven!

The two uhlans and I rode forward into the night, back to the pickets.

Suddenly thundering hoofbeats pierced the silence. In the dim light I could just make out the horsemen.

Cesar Tornesi raced ahead of all of them.

He pulled up in front of me.

“Thank God, Alexandrov! For God’s sake, what happened?”

“Our cowardly uhlans ran like hares from our own Cossacks without raising a weapon!”

“What? Captain Podjampolsky is distraught. Your squadron sergeant reported you had been taken prisoner and—”

“Prisoner?”

“And the entire squadron butchered.”

“Butchered! The lying—”

“We were on our way to rescue you, even at the cost of the entire squadron,” he said.

When I got back to camp, I reported to Captain Podjampolsky. I told him how the blockhead sergeant had deserted his post. The captain nodded.

“I will deal with the sergeant myself,” he said. “And the rest of the cowards. Return to the picket, Alexandrov.”

The entire night I was haunted by doubts.

Would this story reach the ears of the Tsar?

I had been in charge. Didn’t I alone deserve censure and punishment? The half squadron was under my command. Why had I left them with an inexperienced sergeant who had never been in battle? I could not get this thought out of my head.

I still blush to remember this night.

God bless Captain Podjampolsky’s soul. He never reported the incident. He would have preferred that the entire squadron die rather than admit to the cowardice of men under his command.

We were retreating again! Further and further back into the heart of Russia. The French Grand Armée followed us into our deep forests. Could Napoleon not realize what de Tolly was doing? Drawing the insect into the deep hole, like a ground spider.

Napoleon! Rash, too confident. Arrogant. Uninformed. He didn’t know or bother to understand the Russian people. He did not fathom the Russian soul. Bonaparte expected the serfs—the majority of Russian populace—to embrace him when he promised them freedom: “You slaves, you will be free, you will be educated! You will belong to the Republic of France as freemen.”

“Frenchmen?” thought the serfs. “We’d rather be Russian and slaves than Frenchmen. Our souls are tied to Russia.”

No. Napoleon didn’t understand Russians. While some did join him, most of the serfs chose to fight for Mother Russia. They formed rag-tag militias using birch clubs if they had no better weapons.

To remain Russian—that was all that mattered to their souls.

And the French?

Keep following us, you fools of blind ambition! Follow us into our heartland and we will show you a Russian welcome—your bones scattered across our countryside, your bodies left to rot.

We kept moving, marching day and night toward Smolensk, stopping to bivouac every night or two. Some of the men could sleep on horseback. I never could and if I had had a million rubles, I would have traded them all for a good night’s sleep. No one who hasn’t been at war can understand the toll sleeplessness takes on a soldier. There was a point when I didn’t care whether I lived or died, just as long as I could lay down my head.

I studied my reflection on the blade of my saber. An aged stranger, a pale phantom, stared back at me. No luster in my eyes, my skin parchment white. I tried walking alongside Alcides rather than riding, to keep my eyes open. Then I barely had the strength to remount.

Captain Podjampolsky took Cesar Tornesi and me aside to criticize us for letting our platoon doze in the saddle.

“I see their heads swaying, the helmets dropping to ground. See that they look lively and alert. The French are on our heels!”

Cesar grumbled to himself, resenting this chastisement.

“I do what I can with my squadron. But we are human beings, deprived of days’ and nights’ sleep. Of course our uhlans will doze!”

Ah, but we had our revenge. The day after this harsh reprimand we both spied Podjampolsky riding along with his eyes closed, despite his prancing, high-spirited horse.

“Watch!” said Cesar, with a devilish grin. “You stay here and just enjoy some fun.”

He reined up his horse and then galloped ahead, racing past Podjampolsky. The captain’s horse bolted ahead a full run, spooked by the commotion. Captain Podjampolsky struggled to gather up the reins, which had fallen from his hands as his horse raced ahead, willy-nilly.

Cesar and I kept straight faces—and we never discussed the incident with the captain.

We finally camped about fifty versts before Smolensk, receiving orders to halt until further notice. We joined with other regiments. I spread out my greatcoat in a stack of hay and slept ten hours. When I emerged, my short hair studded with grass and seed, it was near sundown.

The camp was lively with cuirassiers, uhlans, and Hussars walking about, discussing if we would have, at last, a chance to fight the enemy. Soldiers squatted near campfires, cleaning their firearms, sharpening their sabers or lances. Our regiment’s band attracted throngs who yearned to hear a merry song.