The Girl Who Fought Napoleon: A Novel of the Russian Empire (36 page)

Chapter 56

Lapshin, the Ukraine

August 1813

My respite in the Ukraine was finished at the end of that glorious summer. I was ordered to turn over all my recuperated horses and my squadron of uhlans.

“The horses and uhlans are needed now,” I was told. “Tsar Alexander is pursuing Napoleon into France.”

I was reassigned to a unit of our regiment commanded by Staff Captain Rszesnicki.

“Hello, my dear Alexandrov,” said Rszesnicki. “I have been expecting you. Did you have a good assignment in the Ukraine?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

I already missed my charges—the herd of horses I healed.

“Good. We move out immediately. We are to blockade the fortress of Modlin. Our Majesty Tsar Alexander has Napoleon on the run.”

“Napoleon forced from Prussia!” I exclaimed.

“And our tsar in pursuit. He swears he will not stop until he has taken Napoleon prisoner.”

“Even into France?” I asked.

“
Da.
Even into Paris itself.”

The decision of our great tsar to pursue Napoleon would mean extra months, maybe years of war for Russia—and for me. So I was not finished with war and bloodshed quite yet.

And I owed Alexander everything.

We arrived at our position overlooking Modlin Fortress in March. We were at the confluence of the Vistula and the Narew rivers, just north of Warsaw. Rszesnicki stationed us at posts at two-verst intervals, with me in the center, living in a small cave dugout, in charge of the entire picket. I commanded our uhlans to be on the ready with half standing by their saddled horses and the other half at rest.

I rode back and forth between the posts, making sure the assigned guard was ready. At my signal, sorties rode out.

Modlin Fortress evidently had a good supply of cannonballs and powder, if not bullets. When our men rode out into the field, the French would immediately open fire—with cannons only! This struck me as comical. Can you imagine trying to hit a single rider with a cannonball?

But the French were desperate. Cannonball by cannonball we disarmed them, galloping our horses across the open field as they fired in vain.

After weeks of dodging the damned cannonballs—which our uhlans began to think of as a game—Modlin was captured. Then we were off to Bohemia, continuing west in support of the Tsar as he pursued Napoleon.

We spent the end of autumn on patrol in the Bohemian mountains. I shall never forget looking down from a high peak of the Harz Range, watching our Russian squadrons file down the narrow road, a misty sinuous strip through the brilliant red- and golden-leaved trees of autumn.

Then, with the first edge of winter, we descended into the Bohemian capital.

Prague. Oh what joy! I marveled at the buildings, the perfect squares, pastel colors, and dollhouse-like charm of this exquisite city: the tall buildings painted in pastels lined up cheek-to-cheek like the painted toys. Our heads swung around to take in the beauty of this Bohemian treasure with its candy-colored architecture and pristine roads. How our horses’ shoes rang out proudly on the cobblestone streets, throwing sparks!

The weather turned fiercely cold. The Bohemians said our Russian weather had followed us—and had they known we were to be stationed there, they would have laid in more peat.

We feasted on succulent roast goose and red cabbage, spiced with copious quantities of caraway, washed down with the finest dark ales I’d ever tasted—though I was not much of a drinker.

I’ve rarely loved a city as much as Prague. The city of Prague and countryside of the Ukraine reminded me of peace, of fine civilization without war. Would we ever find such elusive peace again?

Our sojourn there was too brief, before we, along with the rest of Bennigsen’s army, were ordered on the march again. We headed north and west to contain the French general Davout outside Hamburg.

Chapter 57

Sommepy, France

March 1814

On the thirteenth anniversary of his father’s murder, Alexander attended a memorial mass, an occasion he dreaded each year. Before the service, the Tsar calmed himself by holding Elizabeth’s Bible to his heart.

Oh, my Elise! Where are you when I need your counsel?

He pressed the Bible close, as if branding his soul.

An aide knocked at the door. “Your Majesty, forgive me. It is time for the service.”

Reluctantly, Alexander left the Bible behind and walked to the chapel.

The words of the Mass tumbled, predictable and rote, from the priest’s mouth. But Alexander, still thinking of Elizabeth’s Bible, couldn’t help but be caught up in the ritual that ran through his life from childhood to this very moment.

With the chanting of the priest resonating in the Tsar’s chest, he wept as the brutal memories of that terrible night in Mikhailovsky Palace—the night Alexander became the reluctant tsar of all the Russias—slapped him in waves.

The Tsar shivered like a child as he stood praying.

My father, my beloved father. Please forgive me. Guide me to do the right thing. Give me the strength I need to defeat Napoleon.

He prayed as he had never prayed before.

I have no enemy in France but him. I seek no revenge. But I pray, God our Lord, guide me. If I must fight to save Europe, I shall!

I will sleep in Paris, I swear it!

“I will speak with Field Marshal von Diebitsch!” Alexander ordered as he dismissed the Austrians who had deserted Napoleon but were now trying to persuade the Tsar to abandon his pursuit of the French forces. Napoleon had managed a series of victories in pitched battles, and many allies were urging Alexander to declare victory and return to Russia.

“I will have no more talk of falling back,” Alexander declared. “We will press on to Paris and rout Napoleon in his den.”

Hans Karl von Diebitsch was Prussian born but loyal to Russia and Tsar Alexander. He fought alongside the Russians and had been wounded in the Battle of Austerlitz. He was as experienced and brave as any officer Alexander knew, now that Kutuzov was dead.

“Well?” Alexander asked the general. “Am I mad to ignore the Austrians?”

“If Your Majesty wishes to reestablish the Bourbons on their throne, the best thing to do is to march on Paris.”

“To hell with the Bourbons!” said Alexander. “It is a question of Napoleon!”

General Karl Wilhelm von Toll, who had been standing by eager to speak, was unable to contain himself any longer. “We must march upon Paris,” he interjected. “But we must be wary. We should have ten thousand cavalry keep pursuing Napoleon south of Paris. We will lure him into engagement to disguise our intentions. Then the rest of the army will pour into Paris before he has a chance to double back.”

“Exactly, Toll!” said Alexander. “Brilliant! We shall march on Paris but employ your ruse.”

That night Alexander was awash with doubt. He thought of Kutuzov.

Alexander opened the Bible to the book of Ecclesiastes. He read, moving his lips silently: “A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up.”

He clasped the Bible close to his heart. “Please O Lord, guide me. I have been conceited, haughty, and unwilling to listen to wise counsel throughout the years. I swear I shall dedicate myself to you in whatever is left of my life. I ask you tonight, Lord. Be with me.”

God be with me. Be with us
.
Be Russian!

The Russian cavalry unit commanded by
General von Wintzingerode rode hard against Napoleon’s forces, drawing them away from Paris. The French met the Russians and engaged.

Instead of artillery, the ring of swords filled the battlefield, hard metal against hard metal. Not a single rifle was shot. Cavalry fought against cavalry.

Napoleon looked down from the heights upon the battlefield. A general emerged from the battle, followed by a scout with a lathered horse.

“
Mon empereur!
” gasped the rider. “The Russians have moved their main armies to the outskirts of Paris! We have been lured away by a single cavalry unit!”

Napoleon’s eyes snapped wide open. “What?” It wasn’t really a question, though. The brilliant strategist already understood exactly what had happened.

All eyes riveted on him. His face transformed to an emotion akin to admiration. “A beautiful chess move! I should never have thought them capable of it!”

He shook his head, as if to clear it. “We move north immediately!” he snapped, although he knew it was already too late.

Alexander’s great uncle Colonel Michael Orlov, the illegitimate son of Catherine the Great, was entrusted to carry a plan for peace to Paris. He was ordered to negotiate with French Marshal Auguste Marmont and Napoleon’s former foreign minister Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand and ignore Napoleon’s brother Joseph, who was officially in charge of the defense of the capital.

“Tell them we have no quarrel with the French people,” said Alexander. “I offer peace and tranquility to France, to Europe. If the French troops surrender, I offer them the right to leave the capital. And I will give my word that our troops will be only peacekeepers. We will not allow looting or ill conduct. The Parisians shall be rid of Napoleon and we will inflict no harm.”

Orlov took a sheaf of papers that Alexander had prepared and rode toward Paris.

While Orlov negotiated with Marmont, the battle raged outside Paris.

“You are in a precarious position,” said Colonel Orlov. “General Wellington has forced the French from Spain. All Europe now surrounds you—foremost Tsar Alexander Romanov of Russia.”

Marmont sniffed.

“And if we do not accept your terms?”

“Alexander and his coalition will be forced to ride through Paris with no regard to your people, your architecture, your art,” said Colonel Orlov, leveling his eyes at Marmont. “Paris will be at the mercy of the Cossacks and the rest of the allied soldiers who have suffered greatly under the war Napoleon imposed upon them. Paris could suffer the same fate as our beloved Moscow—”

“Cossacks!” said Marmont. “Burn and sack Paris?”

Orlov steadied his steel-blue eyes at the Frenchman.

As you French did Moscow.

“It is certainly not the wish of Tsar Alexander Romanov. Our great tsar reveres Paris. If you surrender peacefully he guarantees the welfare of the French nation. Our emperor has only one enemy in France. Napoleon Bonaparte.”

Napoleon and the remnants of the Grand Armée raced to Paris.

“How could I have underestimated Alexander!” said Napoleon to Caulaincourt. “He was so inept at Austerlitz, helpless at Tilsit. Could this possibly that same callow, half-deaf bungler?”

Caulaincourt, who had long admired the Tsar, did not answer. King Joseph, Napoleon’s brother, burst into the tent.

“Your Majesty,” said Joseph. “There are reports that Tsar Alexander himself is embedded in the horse troops.”

“The Tsar? Engaged in battle?”

“His presence has aroused the Russians. Their cavalry fight like madmen.”

“What the devil is an emperor—”

A cannon boomed, snatching the rest of Napoleon’s words.

Alexander watched from the vantage point of Buttes-Chaumont. From the heights he waited to see who emerged the victor from the mingling colors of uniforms scaling and descending the hills of Montmartre. It was impossible to determine who was winning.

The Tsar returned to his tent to read his ever-present Bible.

“God, I promise you everything I have. I have been foolish, inconstant, and arrogant. I am your humble servant in destiny.”

The next day at dawn Colonel Orlov entered Alexander’s room. The Tsar was still in bed.

“What news do you bring?”

Orlov bowed. “I bring you the capitulation of Paris, my Tsar.”