The Girl Who Fought Napoleon: A Novel of the Russian Empire (39 page)

While Alexander was in good health, the Tsarina Elizabeth was not. She had breathing troubles that perplexed her physicians. As her condition worsened her doctors recommended that the tsarina spend the winter in a warmer climate. Italy was suggested.

Elizabeth remembered wistfully how Adam Czartoryski had loved Italy.

But Alexander insisted that his wife could not travel without him—and he could not leave Russia. There were rumors of a coup. Alexander could not risk traveling beyond the Russian borders.

“No,” he said to her doctors. “She must remain with me for the winter.”

“Your Majesty,” said the senior member of the team. “The tsarina has an acute lung condition. She needs a drier, warmer climate. The weather of St. Petersburg will kill her!”

“Find a locale within Russia. In my vast empire, there must be some place that is suitable.”

After considerable consultation, the physicians suggested Crimea.

But the next day, Alexander countered with a much more obscure location, the southern port of Taganrog, close to Crimea but on the Sea of Azov rather than the Black Sea. Taganrog was a three-week journey by coach from St. Petersburg.

“There is nothing in Taganrog, your majesty!” said Doctor Wylie, the chief physician. “You will not have the luxuries—not even the necessities!—that Crimea would offer. Taganrog is a humble port with rough seas. Better to travel a little further to Crimea.”

“Taganrog is where the tsarina and I shall reside for the winter. It is quiet and isolated. Make preparations immediately.”

That night Alexander spoke with his wife.

“This will be a second honeymoon for us, my love. We shall take simple quarters—maybe a half dozen rooms for your apartment, a few larger rooms for my own. We shall walk the coastline, my dear, and remember our youth.”

Elizabeth began to answer but her reply was stifled by a fit of coughing.

“Oh!” she managed to say. “Alexander!”

He held his wife’s hand and looked at her tenderly until the spasm of coughing passed.

What a fool I have been all my life! If she were to die I would be lost. And yet, I have not yet told her my plan. What she will think when she hears it!

“Elise, my love. I have thought long and hard about my reign and about Russia herself.”

“What, dearest?” she said. “Tell me.”

“Russia—Russians crave a strong man. The nation is an anvil, the Tsar is the hammer. They’d rather be under a blunt force than the yielding hand of an enlightened leader.”

Elise wrinkled her soft brow.

“I think you are wrong, Alexander.”

“Wrong?”

“The Russians may behave as if they crave a hammer because history has given them no choice. But there will always be those who know the difference. And they will always hunger for a government that promotes freedom and never stop searching until they find it.”

Alexander frowned.

“Do you think I do wrong by appointing Count Arakcheyev as minister?”

“Yes,” said Elise. “Of course I do! He is too much like your father—brutal and militaristic.”

“He keeps men in line.”

“In line? Is that all that is required of a minister?”

“He crushes opposition,” argued Alexander.

“Listen to yourself, Alexander!” said Elizabeth. “Can’t you hear? Crush! Might makes right. Arakcheyev is not of the caliber of the fine men who have held similar positions in the past.”

“You are thinking of Adam Czartoryski, aren’t you?” said Alexander, his eyes intense in the dimming light of dusk.

“
Da
,” she said, sighing. “Adam gave good advice whether you liked it or not. Arakcheyev is a sycophant and a tyrant.”

“I was persuaded by my advisors he was what Russia needed,” said Alexander, walking to the window. He looked out over the Neva, a deep blue in the late summer sun. Young men were fishing in small boats, white seagulls circling their heads, hoping for a taste of the catch.

“Russia needed what? A hammer,” said his wife. “To smash dissent?”

“Russians are a hard people to rule,” said Alexander. “And at best I am only a silver hammer,” said Alexander. “The shape without the strength. Useless against the iron will of Russia’s masses, especially the nobility. I fear it is too late for anything but the strong man.”

“And you don’t have the constitution to play that role,” said his wife, taking his hand. “There is too much of a gentle spirit in your heart.”

“Exactly,” said Alexander. “I am a disaster.”

“That compassion you scorn,” she said, closing her eyes, “is precisely why I have always loved you, Alexander.”

Alexander looked deep into Elizabeth’s eyes. Despite her age, they were still a magnificent shade of blue.

How can I tell her? How can I make her understand?

He took a deep breath.

“Elise, my love. Years ago, there was a young soldier—commended for valor, recommended for the St. George Cross, following the battles of Guttstadt and Friedland.

“Bloody engagements,” said Elizabeth, drawing a deep breath. “So many lost.”

“But this young soldier—perhaps the youngest to ever be honored with the St. George Cross . . . was different,” said Alexander. “Only a week before I met him I received a letter from a former cavalry captain living in Sarapul. He wanted the solder sent home. Because . . . that brave soldier was a girl! And that cavalry captain was her father.”

“What?” cried Elizabeth. “A girl. Fighting against Napoleon?”

“I awarded her the St. George Cross. And I sent her back to war, back to the bloodiest of all battles—Smolensk and then Borodino.”

“Oh! Alexander! How could you do such a thing to a girl, to her family?”

“I did it because she convinced me it was her destiny. She insisted she would have no other life but that of a cavalry soldier. I had the power—of course!—to smash her dreams and send her home safely. But instead I promoted her and sent her to join the Mariupol Hussars.”

Elizabeth’s hand touched her face with her fingertips.

“And she survived . . . Borodino?”

“She survived,” said Alexander, nodding. “She followed her dream and she survived.”

“What an extraordinary girl!”

Alexander turned away, looking out the palace windows at the Neva. A sailboat tacked out to sea.

“My darling Elise,” he said, still gazing out the window at the sailboat. “I find myself at a similar crossroads. I often think of that girl and her commitment to Russia. To her dream. She took an extraordinary road in her life, one that was impossible for most people to imagine. But nothing could stop her.”

He turned away from the window to look at Elizabeth.

“I wish I had that courage.”

“Oh, but Alexander, you do!”

“I wish to have the dedication and faith you possess, Elise. I am weary of politics, of war, of duty to Russia.”

Chapter 64

Taganrog, Russia, on the Sea of Azov

September 1825

The modest stone house had a glorious view of the sea. Alexander set to work preparing a home where his wife could heal.

Refreshed by the sea breeze, he was inspired not only to supervise the work, but to labor alongside his servants. He took up a spade and began digging.

“The Tsar with a spade in his hand,” whispered a peasant. “Could this indeed be our glorious emperor who defeated Napoleon?”

“Shut up and keep digging,” muttered his companion. “He could still order your ears lopped off for being lazy. He’s a Romanov.”

On the day she arrived in Taganrog, Elizabeth alighted from the carriage like a young girl despite the long journey. And from that day on, the Tsar and tsarina seemed healthier and more in love than they had ever been. They walked hand in hand about the gardens and even into the small town. In the evenings, the citizens of Taganrog—mostly Greeks and Tatars—watched their imperial residents from a respectful distance. The tradesmen emerged from their shops and stood along the unpaved road. The butcher wiping ox blood from his hands on his apron. The baker and his wife powdered with flour, sticky dough embedded under their fingernails.

The Tsar and tsarina stood on the shore, looking out to sea. The crowd gasped in delight as two separate silhouettes merged.

“They’re in love, those two!” said the baker’s wife, rubbing her eye.

“In love,” said the butcher. “That’s a notion! Tsars don’t have time for love.”

“Stranger things have happened,” replied the baker, kissing his wife’s floury cheek.

Chapter 65

Sarapul, Russia

March 1816

My hand was shaking, but I forced my fingers to obey. I wrote the letter, addressed it, and sent it directly to Count Arakcheyev.

I had seen enough war. I had seen enough death. Now I needed to see more life.

I formally resigned from the army.

As I prepared to leave for home, I was summoned to St. Petersburg to report to Count Arakcheyev himself. He had the most terrifying reputation, but he had always treated me with the utmost respect.

“Ah, there you are, Captain Alexandrov. I am glad to see you so fit,” said the count. “I trust you have found that I speedily fulfilled any requests on your part?”

“Yes, sir. I thank you for your attention.”

“Tsar Alexander has instructed me to see to your welfare. He commends you for your valor. You have served Russia honorably, Captain Alexandrov.”

If Emperor Alexander only knew that I never killed anyone in my decade of soldiering.

“The Tsar left something for you as a token of his admiration for your service and a memento of himself.”

The count presented me with a finely polished wooden box.

“Open it, please, Captain Alexandrov.”

I bowed. My fingers unlocked the catch.

There on the blue plush velvet lay a silver hammer.

What in the world does he mean by this?

My father enveloped me in his arms.

“You’ve come back to me! My staff in my old age. My Nadya.”

Yes, I quit the sword for my father. And for myself. I was tired of death, of killing.

Farewell to my friends, my merry life of the soldier. The end of parades, drills, and mounted formations. Good-bye to the jingle of spurs, the warm smell of excited horses, the smoke and fire of the battlefield.

And good-bye to the screams of the dying and the stench of the dead.

I was home again.

Chapter 66

Yelabuga, Russia

February 1864

I am haunted. My mind is filled with memories of war, memories that terrify me.

I am tired of remembering.

My eyes close. I must have slept, because when they open, a young man stands beside me. He has dark hair and gentle eyes. He studies me with concern.

I stare back at him. His face is so familiar.

“Grandmother,” he says.

Who is he talking to?
Outside I hear a storm raging. Freezing snow rattles against the windows. No! I cannot let my mind drift away. I must stay right here with this stranger who calls me Grandmother.

“Grandmother, let me get you some more tea.” He rings a bell and Maria comes in to fetch the tea tray. The porcelain jingles as she carries the pot to the boiling samovar.

I touch my hand to my face. It is wet with tears and I am shaking. The young man covers my shoulders with a warm blanket my younger sister stitched many years ago.

“I have come to ask your blessing for my marriage,” he says.

“Who are you?”

He eyes look deep into my own.

“I am your grandson, Vladimir Chernov.”

“Grandson? I have no children. How can I have a grandson?”

“You are Nadezhda Durova Chernova. You were married in the year 1801 to a county clerk. The following year my father, Ivan Chernov, was born.”

“What are you telling me? Lies! I am a cavalry soldier, a Hussar, an uhlan!”

“
Da
,
da
,
Grandmama. You were all of this,” he says, grasping my hand, stroking it. “But first, before you left for the cavalry, you were a mother—and now you are a grandmother! You left your husband—and your son—to fight Napoleon.”

I reach out with my free hand to touch his face.

“I left my own son?”

“You left your husband. Your baby was left with your father and mother. You ran off to the cavalry.” He looked away. “To pursue a Cossack. You fell in love, they say.”

“Lies! I loved no one but the cavalry. Horses—”

“You have a gift with horses, Grandmama. You have passed on that gift to me.”

“Are you good with them?”

“
Da
. I am an animal trainer. A good one.”

I touch his cheek. “I am old. There seems to be so much I do not remember. So much I suddenly do not understand.”

“Oh, but Grandmama! You do have a remarkable memory. Perhaps your dates, your ages are a bit faulty, but what a tale you have told me!”

My head wobbles the way it does when I’m confused. Wobbles like a baby robin, this frail old head of mine.

“What of Tsar Alexander?” I do not know where that question came from. Or why I do not know the answer. But suddenly I have to know. “Does he still live?”

My grandson exhales slowly, making his cheeks puff out. I sniff his breath like a nervous horse. There is something familiar there. I trust his smell.

“There is a legend, Grandmama. They say he is a mystic, a hermit, and lives still. You know the tale better than I. Try to remember. Tell me. Then I will ask for nothing else but your blessing.”

I nod. For my guest—my grandson! I will fight one more battle. I will fight the shadows and I will remember.