The Girl Who Fought Napoleon: A Novel of the Russian Empire (33 page)

“Since my birth, I have consecrated my life to the army, to the cavalry, forever. I am ready to shed my last drop of blood defending the welfare of the emperor. I revere him as I do God. I do not deserve to be threatened with a shot to the head by a German.”

“Colonel Stackelberg actually threatened you with death?” asked the commander in chief.

“Yes, sir.”

I told him of my previous campaigns: Heilsberg, Friedland, Smolensk, Borodino, and the skirmishes in between. He nodded his head once or twice, surveying me.

“I see you limp. Were you wounded?”

“Yes, sir. In Borodino.”

Finally I told him the tragedy of losing Alcides, the hardest blow of all. It was the only time I became overcome with emotion. I checked myself and changed the subject, but not before my voice cracked.

“You are indeed a brave officer,” said Kutuzov.

A hot wave of blood flooded my face, burning my cheeks.

“In the Prussian campaign, Your Honor, all my commanders praised my bravery. I tell you that only to prove that I do not deserve to be executed by a German officer.”

“You served in the Prussian campaign? Can you really have been in the army then? How old are you? I assumed you were not more than sixteen.”

“I am twenty-three, Your Excellency. I began service in the Polish Horse Regiment.”

In all this time, I had not pronounced my name. I felt General Kutuzov’s eyes boring into me.

“Tell me your name,” he said.

“Alexander Alexandrov, sir.”

Kutuzov hauled himself to his feet and embraced me. “How glad I am to have the pleasure of meeting you in person. I have heard about you, Alexandrov. The emperor has spoken to me personally about your bravery. And your—unusual background.”

Kutuzov knew.
I straightened my back, standing erect and stiff, but I did not drop my gaze as the general inspected my physique and uniform with his one good eye.

“As for the threat to shoot you,” said General Kutuzov, “you shouldn’t take it so much to heart, Lieutenant. Those were empty words, spoken in anger. This war makes us all testy. But go now to Adjutant General Konovnitsyn and tell him you are to be a permanent orderly on my staff.”

“Yes, Your Honor!”

I thanked him profusely and walked toward the door.

“You are limping badly, Alexandrov,” he said. “Tell my doctor to examine you immediately.”

“Oh, it’s not bad,” I lied.

“A contusion from a cannonball? Do as I say, Alexandrov. Immediately.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. Filled with joy, I closed the door quietly behind me.

We lived in the village of Krasnaja Pakhra not far from Moscow. We orderlies were relegated to a plank hut, drafty and damp. We huddled against the cold. It was true that my wound was not healed. I had a fever and quaked like a birch leaf.

Adjutant General Konovnitsyn remembered me from my Hussar days. I was the quickest to deliver a message. Ah, those days with my brilliant Alcides!

Now, to my great misfortune, any time there was a message to be delivered he would ask for that “uhlan orderly.” With my poor health “that uhlan orderly” looked like a pale vampire dashing between regiments and even sometimes between wings of the army.

Finally General Kutuzov sent for me.

He took my hand as soon as I entered the room.

“Well, Alexandrov. Have you found it more peaceful here with me than under Colonel Stackelberg? Have you rested up and healed?”

He looked closely at my face.

“My God, you are pale! And thin. What on earth is wrong with you, Alexandrov?”

I was forced to tell him the truth. My leg had not healed and I had to cling to the mane of my horse to stay in the saddle.

“I am ordering you home to your father. Rest, recover. Then come back.”

Go home!

“How can I go home when not a single man is leaving the army? Russia needs every soldier to fight Napoleon.”

“That is an order, Lieutenant,” he said. “We’ve stopped here without action for the time being,” he said, as he looked out the window at the flapping banners. “Perhaps we will be here for a long time. You go home or I’ll put you in the camp hospital.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Your Honor, may I bring my little brother back with me? He is fourteen and it would be an honor for him to start his career under your aegis.”

“
Da
, Alexandrov,” said General Kutuzov. He smiled to himself, my name bringing him satisfaction. “Bring him back with you. I will be like a father to him.”

Chapter 50

Kamenny Island, St. Petersburg

September 1812

Alexander strode into his war office and threw his gloves on the desk in disgust.

“Rostopchin deserted Moscow?”

“Those are the reports we have received, Your Majesty,” said Count Arakcheyev. “Rostopchin’s guards were to hold the city if possible, but they were gone when Kutuzov’s army got there. The city was almost deserted. Kutuzov had no choice. He marched straight through Moscow and out the Kaluga gates.”

“Rostopchin simply left Moscow? The scoundrel!”

“There is a report that he has rigged the chimneys and stoves with powder kegs. When the French try to set a fire to warm themselves or cook, they will be blown sky high!”

“And destroy Moscow. The blasted traitor!”

“Without reinforcements Rostopchin felt he could not protect Moscow from Napoleon.”

“Hah! He didn’t even wait for Kutuzov, did he?” The Tsar sat at his desk, anger and disappointment clear on his face. “Tell me, how are the people in St. Petersburg taking the news?”

Count Arakcheyev lowered his gaze to the silvery-white marble floor.

“They cannot believe it, Your Excellency,” his head still lowered. “Many are stockpiling food and preparing to give shelter to their Muscovite friends and family. The gossip on the street is that Napoleon has set his sights on St. Petersburg. He will not be satisfied until all Russia is under his thumb.”

The Tsar rose again, unable to sit and listen any longer.

After a moment, the adjutant general spoke again, trying to calm the emperor: “I don’t think Napoleon will go any further, sire. He doesn’t realize it yet, but he is trapped—caught between our armies . . . and our winter. Kutuzov is blocking the southern route on the Kaluga road. Napoleon’s only way out of Russia is back through Smolensk—which is burned. All the crops and food supplies are cinders and ash. There will be no forage for horses, or victuals for men. Russia will suffer, but we can withstand the pain, Your Majesty.”

The weary Tsar returned that night to the Winter Palace. The tsarina rushed to meet him as he entered the door.

“Is it true, Alexander? Has Napoleon really taken Moscow?”

Alexander embraced his wife, tears sparkling in his eyes.

“Yes.”

“Oh, Alexander! How can this be? How could we let the wolf in the gates?” Elizabeth pressed a hand to her lips. “What will become of the Kremlin? The churches! He and his soldiers will defile them—”

Alexander shook his head vehemently. “I don’t know how this happened. Rostopchin deserting, Kutuzov marching through the city but not defending it.”

Elizabeth watched her husband’s face wrinkle in pain.

“Kutuzov must have weighed the risks. If he knew his army would be defeated, he—”

“Are you defending Kutuzov?” said Alexander.

“As if the general needs me to defend him!” said Elizabeth. “I’m simply trying to fathom why Moscow was deserted.”

Alexander pressed his hands to his temples.

“It is a disaster! My grandmother Catherine must be shedding bitter tears in heaven. The French in Moscow!”

“Come, Alexander. Have a glass of Burgundy—”

“Burgundy! I hate all things French.”

Elizabeth touched her husband’s hand, saying nothing. Alexander’s fingers unfurled, taking her hand in his own.

Chapter 51

Outside Moscow

September 1812

Two days after ordering me to return home on medical leave, Kutuzov sent for me again.

“Here are your travel orders,” he said. “And money for horses.”

He pressed his lips together tightly, as if debating whether to speak further.

“I have been in contact with our emperor. He sends his blessings and concern about your injuries. You have earned a special place in his heart. You bring honor upon his name, Alexandrov.”

I almost wept at these words but controlled myself. Despite my throbbing leg it was my heart that I felt, a deep warmth expanding in my chest.

“Go with God! If you should ever need anything, write directly to me and me only. I’ll do all in my power to help you. Farewell, my friend.”

My friend!

The great Kutuzov, commander in chief of all Russian armies, embraced me with the tenderness of a father.

From General Kutuzov’s embrace to my father’s was a journey of a week. Because I traveled under a courier’s orders, the coach drivers galloped their horses from post station to post station. The crimson stripes of my uniform and the whispered name of Kutuzov resulted in a jolting ride, as I muffled my cries of pain.

“Trot is appropriate,” I told them over and over again. “You do not have to rush!”

But given the courier orders coming from Kutuzov, they assumed that the fate of Moscow and Russia overrode my pleas as we covered ground at lightning speed toward Kazan, and then onto Sarapul—where I collapsed into my father’s embrace.

At length, he stood back a looked at me.

“My God! Nadya! Look at you. You are but bones and skin.”

He fingered my uniform, scorched, sooty, and riddled with bullet holes.

“Are you really my Nadya?” he whispered, pressing me close to his breast again. We may have both shed tears in that embrace.

“Now go to the bathhouse at once. Natalja!” he called to our maid. “Heat the water as hot as you dare, beat her skin with birch strips, and then see she rolls thrice in the snow. We must dislodge the vermin. We will have no lice in this household!”

I gave my old uniform to Natalja, who made a dressing gown out of the venerable rag after it was boiled. My father hung it in his wardrobe to remember me during my future absence from home.

Papa did not want Vasily to leave home.

“Is it not enough that I give my beloved daughter to Russia in this war? Vasily is not yet fourteen!”

“But Papa!” protested Vasily. “I will be fourteen in the spring. And there could be no better start for me than to be under the commander in chief’s auspices!”

My father paced the floor. I could see he was tortured with this decision.

“
Da
,” acquiesced Papa. “But only on one condition. You must wait until spring. I will not have a thirteen-year-old son of mine sent away in winter to fight the French. Vasily will wait until the snow thaws.”

What could I do? My leg had not mended properly and my brother needed my escort to Kutuzov’s headquarters.

I wrote to General Kutuzov. He answered:

Lieutenant Alexandrov:

You have every right to carry out your father’s will. You are not obliged to account for your absence to anyone but me. I permit you to remain at your father’s side until spring. At that time report back to my headquarters with your brother.

You will lose nothing of the men’s opinions by remaining home a few months. You have fought bravely in the bloodiest battles of the campaign. Your father should be proud.

General Kutuzov, Commander in Chief of the Russian Army

I showed my father the letter. Tears welled in his eyes as he read it.

That letter that I would have treasured was confiscated by my proud father, who showed it to everyone he knew. To him the missive merited the same respect as my Cross of St. George. It soon became smudged with fingerprints from being passed from hand to hand.