The Red Tide

by Christopher Nicole

  The Red Tide

  Christopher Nicole

  © Christopher Nicole 1995

  Christopher Nicole has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1995 by Severn House

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Part One - Twilight of the Gods

  Chapter One - Death of a Strong Man

  Chapter Two - The Holy Man

  Chapter Three - The Husband

  Chapter Four - The Scandal

  Chapter Five - The Bride

  Part Two - The Swirling Clouds

  Chapter Six - War

  Chapter Seven - The Arrest

  Chapter Eight - The Mistress

  Part Three - The Red Tide

  Chapter Nine - Fall of a Dynasty

  Chapter Ten - Going Home

  Chapter Eleven - The Wives

  Chapter 12 - Red and White

  Part One - Twilight of the Gods

  ‘But came the tide, and made my pains his prey.’

  Edmund Spenser

  Chapter One - Death of a Strong Man

  “Please inform the ladies,” said Prince Alexei Bolugayevski, “that there is every possibility we shall be late.” But he smiled as he spoke, and ruffled his son’s thick black hair.

  Forty-six years old, Alexei Bolugayevski was in the prime of life. He stood six feet two inches in his socks, and if over the years he had put on a good deal of weight, he was still a fine figure of a man, especially when, as tonight, he was wearing the white full dress uniform of a general in the Russian Army. His complexion was fair as was his graying hair; his features were big and handsome; he exuded both confidence and forcefulness. No one would have supposed he was not Russian at all, but born of English parents.

  His son, eleven years old in this autumn of 1911, did not in the least look like his father.

  He had been named Colin after his famous grandfather, the first English Prince Bolugayevski. This Colin had the small features and dark hair of his mother. Alexei did not love him any the less for that, as even after twelve years of marriage he still adored his wife. He foresaw problems ahead, of course. Count Colin Bolugayevski was the undoubted heir to the Bolugayevski title and estates. But he was also half-Jewish. No one had yet raised this potentially prickly point. Russia was in a state of such turmoil that Tsar Nicholas II needed all the loyal boyars he could find to sustain him, and nowadays Prince Bolugayevski was counted amongst those props of the throne. Tonight would see the final act of reconciliation between himself and the Tsar. He faced the door as the ladies emerged; they were staying in an hotel as the Bolugayevskis did not maintain a palace in Kiev; they seldom visited the capital of the Ukraine. On this occasion they had been commanded to do so.

  The Princess Sonia came first. She would have deferred to her aunt-in-law, but Anna Bolugayevska was always a stickler for protocol, and a princess had to have precedence over a countess. Alexei’s eyes shone as he gazed at his wife. Much of Sonia Bolugayevska’s background still remained a mystery to him. He had no wish to know whether she had ever actually indulged in any of the acts of terrorism of which she had been accused, found guilty, and sentenced to exile in Siberia. Neither did he wish to know in detail what she had suffered, either at the hands of the Okhrana, the Tsar’s secret police, or at the hands of her guards and fellow inmates in Irkutsk. That part of her life had officially been forgotten. That she had suffered, dreadfully, was apparent by her slight limp, for she had lost two toes on her left foot to frostbite during her escape from exile into a Siberian winter. But her beauty was undiminished. Sonia was thirty-four years old. She was tall, but although twice a mother — their three-year-old daughter Anna had been left on the family estate of Bolugayen in the care of her nurse — she remained slightly built; for this state occasion she wore her magnificent curling black hair in a somewhat tight pompadour. Her features were exquisitely carved, and dominated by her huge black eyes, which conveyed the essential animation of her character. Her gown was deep red, and her jewellery mainly rubies and diamonds.

  But even Sonia’s perfection was subdued by the presence of the woman who followed her. Anna Bolugayevska was seventy-two years old. In her youth she had been the greatest beauty in Russia, and her sexual adventures, and misadventures, had become legends. In Boston she was still known as Mrs Charles Cromb, widow of the millionaire shipowner. But she preferred to live in Russia, where she had been born and bred, and to pay occasional visits to the United States to be with her son and daughter and grandchildren.

  Equally, she travelled once a year to England to be with her other son and his wife, and their children.

  Duncan Cromb’s wife was also a Bolugayevska, and indeed, Anna’s niece. But the Bolugayevskis had never paid much attention to small matters such as incest.

  Nowadays, Anna constantly reminded everyone that her adventuring was done; it had come to an end during her shattering experiences in Port Arthur in 1904, when the Manchurian seaport had fallen to the Japanese. But she moved as vigorously as ever. Her hair, always a pale yellow, so that the fact that it was now entirely white was hardly noticeable, was worn in a huge, loose pompadour; her figure, maturely voluptuous, was sheathed in her blue gown, and she wore matching sapphires and diamonds. She glittered, in a way no other woman Alexei had ever known had quite equalled. Now she snorted as she watched her nephew pacing up and down. “Tsar Sultan,” she remarked disparagingly. “One simply must be late for Rimski-Korsakov.”

  “We are attending the Tsar, Aunt Anna,” Alexei reminded her. “Not Rimski-Korsakov.”

  “Is it true Sophie will be there?” Sonia asked, having kissed Colin and sent him off to bed with the nurse.

  “I’m afraid she probably will,” Alexei said.

  “With her friend, of course,” Anna remarked.

  “That too. Kiev is their back yard. Now, are we ready?”

  It was a mid-September evening, and still warm in the south; the Bolugayevskis drove to the opera house in an open carriage. Alexei actually owned an automobile, because of his interest in all things new, but that too was on Bolugayen: one did not, in any event, ride to the opera in an automobile. The ladies wore fur jackets, but mainly to conceal their decolletages from the crowds which were always present to watch the aristocracy at play. The distance was not great, and then there were even more crowds. But these were controlled by almost as many policemen. Russia was still seething with unhappiness and discontent. The nation’s morale had been shattered by their defeat, six years previously at the hands of Japan. No one was quite sure how such a catastrophe had happened. Those, like Alexei, who had been in the front line in Manchuria, remembered the frightening shortages of shells and bullets which had negated their every attempt at an offensive. Even he suspected that there had been corruption at home, causing those shortages. The peasantry which made up the vast bulk of the Russian population had no doubt of it.

  The trauma of the peace, with Russia totally defeated for the first time in three hundred years, had been accentuated a year later by the great famine. A very cold winter had been followed by a very wet spring, and almost everywhere the harvest had failed. It had been estimated that more than ten million people had died of starvation. Alexei, with his carefully controlled reserves of stored grain, had been able to avoid such a catastrophe on the family estate of Bolugayen, but he had had to employ a lot of men, and use some forcefully unpleasant methods, to keep Bolugayen from being overrun by hordes of people in search of food.

  And the famine had been followed, inevitably, by one of the worst outbreaks of cholera ever recorded, which had swept through the country and caused more t
han another million deaths. It had been at its peak here in the Ukraine, only the previous year, and the Tsar’s decision to attend the opening of the Kiev Opera House was intended to show the people that the royal family was not afraid of the plague in its determination to do its duty. But it was a sobering reflection that there could not be a single person in the watching throng who had not, in the last couple of years, lost at least one close relative to either starvation or disease.

  Like all the Russian aristocracy, Alexei searched his mind for a solution to the unending ills of his adopted country. He was becoming increasingly aware that the Tsar, so handsome and apparently debonair and determined, was in reality the weakest of men, who changed his mind from one meeting with his ministers to the next, and who, worse, was nowadays over-preoccupied with the health of the Tsarevich. No one knew precisely what was the matter with the seven-year-old heir to the throne. It was a closely-guarded secret, but it was rumoured that he suffered from some congenital illness which might place the very existence of the dynasty in peril: he had only sisters. But since the great famine, Nicholas II had taken at least one very important step: he had at last chosen a talented prime minister. Alexei caught sight of Peter Stolypin, greeting the rich and famous who were attending this opening night of the Kiev Opera House.

  Stolypin wore the conventional beard and moustache, and a smiling, confident face. He knew his measures, which involved allotting a great deal of land owned by the boyars to the peasants while at the same time dealing rigorously with any disidents or would-be terrorists, were working, even if they had brought him much hatred and the assassination of his favourite daughter by a bomb intended for him. But he felt he could count on the support of the liberal-minded Prince Bolugayevski.

  Bolugayen had itself been called upon to sacrifice several million acres, yet he considered the Prince his friend, even if, like all upper-class Russians, he could not approve of Alexei’s choice of a wife. He clasped Alexei’s hand. “It is good of you to come. I know his majesty will be pleased.”

  The two men made a considerable contrast, as Alexei remained clean-shaven. But now the Prime Minister was bowing over Sonia’s hand. “Your Highness.” And then smiling at Anna. “Your Excellency.”

  Anna sniffed. She did not like Peter Stolypin, simply because she refused to like any man, or woman, who attempted to interfere with the family or the family’s wealth. “Is all well?” Alexei asked, quietly.

  “How can it be otherwise?” Stolypin replied. “I do believe there are more policemen in that crowd than spectators. But come inside.” He escorted them into the crowded foyer, and drew Alexei aside as the ladies were divested of their coats by anxious flunkies. “No, Prince Alexei. All is not well. Tell me, have you ever heard the name Rasputin?”

  “Oh, indeed. He is the wild holy man from deepest Siberia, who is currently the social lion of St Petersburg. When we were there in the spring, it seemed no one was speaking of anything else.”

  “What did they tell you of him?”

  “I really wasn’t very interested, Peter Arkedevich. I gather he holds meetings, or seances, or whatever, which are attended by half the titled ladies in Russia.”

  “Do you have any idea what goes on at these meetings?”

  “Should I?”

  “I can tell you, Alexei Colinovich, that as far as I can gather from the Okhrana, there is a good deal of indecency. Trouble is, not even the Okhrana can actually get an agent into his apartment. They have tried, but he seems able to sniff them out and send them packing.”

  Alexei was frowning. “What sort of indecency?”

  “Most of it is unmentionable. There is a rumour, for instance, that one of this ‘holy man’s’ pleasures is to be bathed, by his guests.”

  “Are you serious? We are talking of titled ladies, from what I have heard. I cannot believe that.”

  “Neither can I. But some people do. However, that is not the point. If the noble ladies of Russia choose to debase themselves to this monk, that is their business. What is serious is that this fellow has managed to worm his way into the royal family.”

  Alexei glanced at where Anna and Sonia were waiting, Anna somewhat impatiently, while the other people in the foyer were all clearly interested in the tete-a-tete between the Prime Minister and the prince.

  None of them could go up to their boxes or take their seats until the arrival of the Tsar. And Stolypin wanted to confide. “It seems,” he went on, “that Rasputin is the only man who can alleviate the attacks of severe pain which from time to time afflict the Tsarevich.”

  “What exactly is the matter with the boy?”

  Stolypin sighed. “What I will tell you must be in the strictest confidence.”

  “Then why tell me at all?”

  “Because I have an idea you may be able to help.”

  “Me?”

  “Listen! The Tsarevich suffers from haemophilia.” Alexei stared at him with his mouth open.

  “You know what that is?” Stolypin asked.

  “His blood will not clot.”

  “Quite. It is an hereditary disease, apparently, which is transmitted in the female line, usually skipping a generation, but is only suffered by males. Thus her majesty has transmitted it to her son, although she does not suffer it herself. Presumably she inherited it from Victoria of England, her grandmother.”

  “But if that is true...” Alexei said slowly.

  “Quite. If he bleeds, often internally, every time he is bruised, there is almost no possibility of the Tsarevich surviving to grow to manhood. Certainly without the greatest care. This is where Rasputin comes in. He can alleviate the pain, even end the attacks.”

  “Well,” Alexei said. “I suppose there is some good in all of us.”

  “There is no good in this charlatan,” Stolypin said. “But if he can cure pain...”

  “I suspect he uses some form of mesmerism. From all accounts he has a dominating personality. The important thing is that he spends a good deal of time, either at the Winter Palace or in Tsarskoye Selo, with the royal family. He is allowed the most unlimited access, not only to the Tsarevich, but to the Tsaritsa and the grand duchesses. People are beginning to talk. And do more than talk. Look at this.” He took a postcard from his inside breast pocket. “Don’t flash it about, for God’s sake.”

  Cautiously, Alexei took the piece of cardboard, gazed at a crude drawing, of a full-bearded man, wearing a monk’s habit, seated, with a woman on his lap. The woman was naked from the waist up, her breasts carefully accentuated...and she wore a crown. “Surely this is treason?”

  “Of course it is. But these are circulating throughout Petersburg and Moscow. Oh, we have located a couple of the presses and closed them down, but others spring up like mushrooms.”

  “Has the Tsar seen this?”

  “I have shown it to him. He was appalled. But he will not take the simple solution: get rid of Rasputin.”

  “But if this fellow can really cure the Tsarevich...”

  “Of course he cannot cure the Tsarevich. As I have said, he is a charlatan, relying as much on hypnosis as any knowledge of medicine. I have this on the authority of Dr Botkin, the Tsarevich’s personal physician. Listen, Prince Alexei: have a talk with the Tsar.”

  “Me? I have been virtually in disgrace these past few years.”

  “I know that. But as he asked for you to come here tonight he is obviously seeking a public reconciliation. I know he trusts you, understands that your...what shall I say?...misbehaviour? That it was purely to save your sister. Now he wants you on his side. And you are not one of the Petersburg crowd of sycophants and hangers-on. He knows your judgement is unbiased.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to persuade him to get rid of Rasputin. For the sake of us all.”

  “Well...”

  “Alexei!” Anna said severely, coming up to them. “You simply cannot talk politics at the opera. It is most rude. In any event, Sophie is here. Aren’t you go
ing to greet her?”

  Alexei gave the Prime Minister a quick smile, and followed his aunt to the other side of the foyer, where two women were discarding their coats. The Countess Sophie Bolugayevska was his sister, and thus, like him, purely English in blood, the daughter of Prince Colin and Jennie Cromb. But in many ways she had become the most Russian of the entire family. Three years younger than himself, at forty-three she had allowed her good looks to dissipate into heaviness, and wore her yellow hair loose, as if she were a girl and a virgin. As perhaps she still was, so far as Alexei knew. She had long ago turned her back on the plans her family had had for her, both in terms of marriage and socially and had asserted her independence and her sexual preferences by living openly with the Countess Grabowska on her Ukraine estate. Janine Grabrowska was with her now; the two women were inseparable. Janine, at fifty, was as elegant as ever. She greeted Alexei with a warm smile. Sophie’s was more tentative. “I had heard you were coming to Kiev for this occasion, Your Highness,” Janine said, and gave a brief bow to Sonia. “Your Highness.” She had not previously met the Princess. Now she smiled at Anna. “Your Excellency, how good to see you looking so well.”

  Anna ignored her to address Sophie. “You are not taking enough exercise.”

  “Well, really, aunt,” Sophie said. “I live a very active life.” She stared at her sister-in-law; like Janine, she had never met Sonia. “I am charmed, Your Highness.”

  “It is my pleasure, Countess,” Sonia said. “We should be delighted were you to pay us a visit.” She glanced at Janine Grabowska. “Oh, you as well, Countess.”

  “Well,” Janine said. “I think that would be very nice. Perhaps next spring. I...” She paused. There was a fanfare from the trumpeters who had been lined up on the pavement; the noise precluded any further conversation.

  Everyone faced the doors, the men insensibly standing to attention whether they were in uniform or not, the women bracing themselves. Stolypin hurried forward to be the first to greet the Tsar as he entered. Alexei was always surprised by how small a man the Autocrat of All the Russias was; Nicholas II was not much over five feet tall. But he carried himself well, and was magnificently dressed in red tunic and dark blue breeches, a pale blue ribbon across his tunic, his left breast a smother of medals. He greeted his Prime Minister warmly, and then entered the foyer, while Stolypin in turn greeted the ladies who followed, principally the two grand duchesses, Olga and Marie, who were accompanying their father. But not their mother or their sisters, Alexei noticed, which lent substance to Stolypin’s story of how ill the Tsarevich actually was...or indicated that the Empress and her two other daughters had no intention of exposing themselves to plague germs, even to please the people.