He galloped back to the command train, where Samsanov was sending urgent radio messages, back to Jilinski, informing him of the situation, and north to Rennenkampf, imploring him for help. But there was no way Rennenkampf could possibly reach them in time, even supposing he was likely to disobey his orders, which were to keep on advancing west, to go to the aid of a man he in any event loathed. “General,” Alexei said. “We must retreat while there is still time.”
“Their shells have broken the line behind us,” one of the staff officers said. “We would have to abandon the train.”
“We would save the army,” Alexei shouted.
Samsanov pulled his beard. He knew as well as anyone this catastrophe was of his doing, because he had not sent out a reconnaissance until it was too late, because he had not accepted the finding of the reconnaissance when it had been sent out, because he had made the cardinal sin in warfare of believing things were as he wanted them to be instead of finding out what they actually were. “The army will retreat,” he said. “We will fall back on Bialystok. General Prince Bolugayevski, you will organise the advance guard of the retreat. Leave now. Haste is imperative. Report to me when you are ready to move out.”
Alexei saluted and ran back to his horse. Around him shells continued to burst, and now he saw soldiers milling about, lacking officers to command them, throwing down their weapons. He urged his horse into their midst. “Follow me,” he shouted. “Pick up those rifles. We must fight our way out.”
“We are lost,” someone bawled. “We are surrounded. We must surrender.”
Without hesitation Alexei drew his revolver and shot the man dead. “You and you,” he shouted at junior officers who were emerging out of the mist. “Rally these men or I will have you shot.” He galloped into the mist, wondering where Rotislav was. Or Korsakov, for that matter. In front of him he found a group of mounted officers. “Where are your men?”
“We have taken cover over there.” The colonel pointed to the south-west.
“And you are here,” Alexei remarked. “Well, follow me.”
“You’ll be killed,” the colonel said.
“Correction,” Alexei replied. “We’ll be killed. Perhaps. But is that not why we are soldiers? To die for Tsar and Motherland?”
He walked his horse forward, and the officers followed. He came upon a regiment of infantry, lying or kneeling, firing into the mist. In the mist there were flashes of light, and every so often a man would collapse to the ground, mostly without a sound. But they were holding. “If only we knew where they were,” the colonel complained, reining his horse behind Alexei’s. The animals were neighing and occasionally rearing as bullets whistled by or sent up spurts of mud or earth from close at hand.
“They are there, Colonel. And you can be sure they are dying as often as any of our people. Where is your brigade commander?”
“I do not know, Your Highness.”
“Well, hold your men here. I will return in a little while with orders.” He rode alongside the track, which was now filled with several trains, all stopped and helpless, unable to go forward or back as there were great gaps torn in the line. Everywhere there were men milling about, wounded — men and horses — screaming, officers bawling orders which were not being obeyed. The Second Army had become a disorganised mob. Then he saw Korsakov. The major had lost his hat, and there was blood on his face. But he looked as efficient as ever, even if he now had no men at his back. “Where is your regiment?” Alexei demanded.
“They are there, Your Highness. What is left of them. I must tell you, there is no way through; the Germans are behind us in force. We are surrounded.”
One of the officers who had followed Alexei gave a great shout. “We are surrounded! The army is lost!”
Alexei turned in the saddle, drawing his sword as he did so, and swung the weapon. The officer gave another shout, and attempted to drag his horse round, so vigorously that the beast went down on its haunches and he was unseated. He freed his feet from the stirrups and ran into the mist, but the damage had been done. His cry was taken up, wailing its way through the ranks.
“What do you wish me to do, Your Highness?” Korsakov asked.
“Join your men, and lead them out, if you can.”
Korsakov wheeled his horse, and then checked. “Will you not come with us, Your Highness?”
“I will come if I can,” Alexei told him. “But do not wait for me.”
He rode back towards the command train, through masses of panic-stricken men. No one attempted to stop him, except inadvertently by being in his way; no one took any notice of him, either. There was still a good deal of firing going on, but the bombardment had ceased. The Germans knew the battle was won. He galloped up to the command train, flung himself from the saddle, burst into the compartment. “General, this army is disintegrating into a mob. You must take personal control. You must...” He looked left and right, at the frightened staff officers. “Where is General Samsanov?”
“The General has left the train, Your Highness,” one of the officers said. “He told us he was going for a walk in the woods, to think.”
“To...my God!” Alexei leapt from the open door and ran into the trees. “Alexander Vasilievich!” he shouted. “Where are you?” For reply, he heard the flat sound of a revolver shot. He stumbled towards it, and came upon Samsanov, lying on his back. The general had placed his revolver muzzle in his mouth and pulled the trigger. The whole top of his head had been blown off and only a bloody mass remained.
Alexei stared at him, while a million thoughts tumbled through his brain. Samsanov had killed himself because he knew his army was lost, and he could not face that fact. But as he had killed himself, the command now devolved on his deputy: Prince Alexei Bolugayevski. Then, as the army was lost, swallowed up as if it had never existed, should not he also blow out his brains? But to do that would be never to see Priscilla again, or his children, including the one not yet born, or Bolugayen. It would also be a gross betrayal of all the men who now had to depend upon him for salvation.
Alexei straightened and squared his shoulders, and listened to footsteps, all about him. He saw grey-green uniforms coming through the trees and heard barked words of command.
“Your Highness!”
He turned, and saw Rotislav, peering at him from some bushes. Hastily he joined the valet. “I thought you were dead.”
“It is my business to be where you are, Your Highness. But what are we to do? If we do not surrender, we will be killed.”
“We must surrender,” Alexei agreed. “But there is something I must do first.”
Chapter Seven - The Arrest
Gleb Bondarevski stood on one leg as the Countess Anna read the newspaper. The entire house, the entire estate, was hushed, as the news had spread through the servants’ quarters and down to the village. But then, perhaps the whole of Russia was hushed.
“A hundred and twenty-five thousand men,” Anna muttered. “Swallowed up in a single day. Do you know, Gleb, our total casualties in the war with Japan were less than double that? And Samsanov, disappeared! Then where is the Prince? Why is there no word of the Prince?”
Gleb looked more distressed yet. “Here is the later paper, Your Excellency. There is a rumour that General Samsanov, when he realised that his army was surrounded and would have to surrender, went into the woods and committed suicide.”
Anna raised her head. “The man is a coward. Was a coward.” She snorted. “I am not interested in General Samsanov, Gleb. I wish news of the Prince.”
Gleb licked his lips. “It is said that Prince Bolugayevski followed General Samsanov into the wood, Your Excellency. And has not been seen since.”
Anna stood up. “Are you saying that the Prince committed suicide, Gleb?”
“I am reporting what the newspapers are saying, Your Excellency. But they are only rumours.”
They gazed at each other. Of all the servants on Bolugayen, only Gleb would dare put such a possibility to the Counte
ss. And looking at her expression, the old butler began to wonder if he had exceeded the bounds of even their twenty-year-old friendship. But she merely said, “The Prince Bolugayevski does not commit suicide. Where is Count Colin?”
“He is out riding, Your Excellency.”
“I wish him sent to me the moment he comes in. To me, Gleb, and no one else. Where is the Countess Anna?”
“At her lessons with Mademoiselle Friquet, Your Excellency.”
“See that she stays there until Count Colin comes in.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.” Gleb shuffled his feet. “Will you tell Her Highness?”
“Of course I must tell Her Highness, you old goat.” Anna hesitated for a moment, her mouth twisted. Then she said, “Send into the village and tell Dr Geller I wish to see him. Now.” Gleb hurried off, and Anna climbed the stairs, as slowly and painfully as she did most things nowadays, one hand on the bannisters, the other clutching the newspapers. Oh, she thought, to be young again. To be the girl who had defied the world, laughed at it, conquered it as much with her fearless energy as with her beauty. Now...Alexei dead? She could not believe it. But if it was true...young Colin was the Prince. Half-Jewish and sixteen years old, in the middle of a war which was again turning out to be a disaster for Russia. There was a problem.
On the first floor gallery a clutch of maids ceased whispering to curtsey as she reached them. They would have heard the rumour, of course. She could only hope it had not reached Priscilla’s sewing room, before she did.
Anna opened the door and stepped inside. Madame Xenia was seated beside the Princess with notebooks before them both; obviously they had been going over household matters. Xenia rose and gave a brief curtsey as the Countess entered. Priscilla looked up with a bright smile. “Was that the post, Grandma? Were there any letters?”
Her tone was wistful. In the past month she had received but a single letter from Alexei, written before the campaign had properly started. Anna had explained that he could not write once the march on Germany had begun, for fear of giving away the army’s position and progress, but it was nonetheless upsetting for the girl not to know what her husband was doing, and how he was faring. Well, she would have to know now. “Leave us, if you will, Xenia,” Anna said. “I think you should have a word with Gleb.”
Xenia raised her eyebrows and gave her actual mistress a glance, as if to say, am I being dismissed? But Priscilla responded with her usual bright smile. “I will send for you in a few minutes, Xenia,” she said. Xenia curtseyed, and closed the door behind her. “You have that poor woman terrified out of her wits, Grandma,” Priscilla said with mock severity. “Now, what has happened? I know that something has.”
Anna sat beside her and placed the newspapers on the table. Priscilla picked up the first broadsheet, a frown slowly gathering as she read. She raised her head. “How can our army have been defeated, just like that?”
“Incompetence, I would say. It has always been incompetence.”
“But...there is no word of Alexei. And Samsanov has disappeared...”
“Samsanov appears to be dead. They are saying he committed suicide.”
“My God! That is a reversion to barbarism.”
Anna shrugged. “In many ways the Russians are still a barbaric people, and proud of it. Priscilla...” She rested her hand on the girl’s. “There is a rumour that Alexei may also have done this.”
Priscila had been reading some more. Now she raised her head again. “Alexei? I do not believe that. I will never believe that. He...he has too much to come home to.”
“I do not believe it either. But, as he also has disappeared, we must face the fact that he may have been killed.”
Priscilla stared at her for several seconds, then she grimaced at the same moment as she grasped her swollen stomach. Anna squeezed her hand. “Geller will be here in a little while.” She rang the bell for the maids.
“Is it true that we have lost the war, Grandma?” Anna asked. Behind her, Mademoiselle Friquet was wringing her hands. Elene Friquet was a young woman, and not at all unattractive; she had a well-nourished figure which expanded lavishly at hip and bust, and thick black hair which promised much but which she invariably wore in a tight bun to match her tight features. She was unmarried, and as far as Anna was aware, a virgin: certainly she had never shown the slightest interest in any of the men of Bolugayen since coming here the previous year.
Alexei had considered her the perfect governess for his daughter. Anna was not so sure, if he wanted his daughter to be a Bolugayevska. There was also the undoubted fact that Mademoiselle Friquet, being French, regarded such things as tsars and aristocracies with deep suspicion, and was critical of the lavish lifestyle of the family with which she now lived. But her heart was undoubtedly in the right place when it came to hating Germans, and she was as horrified as anyone by the news of this catastrophic defeat suffered by France’s allies.
It was time to put things in perspective. “Of course we have not lost the war,” Anna snapped. “We have lost a battle, and, it appears, one of our armies. A hundred and twenty-five thousand men. Do you know how many men Russia has under arms at this moment, Anna? Eight million! That is to say, we have lost one sixty-fourth of our total strength. What nonsense. Where is Count Colin?” she asked the governess.
“I have not seen him, Your Excellency. May I ask if there is any news of the Prince?”
“There is no news of anyone, at the moment,” Anna said. “It is all rumour.”
“I saw Dr Geller arriving...”
“Her Highness is in labour, Friquet.” Anna forced a beam in the direction of her namesake. “You are about to have a baby brother.” Pray heaven, she thought, it is a baby brother.
She went downstairs again. Gleb was waiting in the front hall, with his black tie and tails suggestive of a messenger from hell awaiting a summons from his master, she thought. “Am Ito understand that Count Colin has not returned from his ride?” Anna demanded.
“I have not seen him, Your Excellency.”
“Then he has heard the news and taken himself off.”
“Off, Your Excellency?”
“He wants to fight. He will have gone into Poltava to get the train. Silly boy. He could be the Prince of Bolugayen.” She bit her lip, and glanced at the butler. “You will forget I said that, Gleb. But you will summon Monsieur Boscowski and have him send men into Poltava to bring the silly boy back. Discreetly. But it must be done.” Gleb bowed.
Anna returned upstairs to the Princess’s bedroom, from whence a stream of anxious maids came and went, carrying cloths and hot water, whispering amongst themselves. She went through the sitting room, where there were more anxious women, and opened the bedroom door, just in time to hear the slap and the thin wail. She stood by the bedside and kissed Priscilla’s sweat-wet forehead. “It’s a boy, Grandma,” Priscilla said. “A boy. Oh, I wish Alexei were here.”
“He will be,” Anna assured her, and turned to Geller. Madame Xenia actually held the babe, like all newborn babes, a wizened scrap of humanity.
“I have a wet nurse waiting,” Geller said. “Until Her Highness’s milk comes in. That is, if....” He hesitated.
“Yes, I intend to feed him,” Priscilla said.
“You must rest,” Anna told her. “I will come back later, and we will talk about a name.” She nodded her head to the door, and Geller followed her into the sitting room. “Well?”
“The babe is a month premature, Your Excellency. Obviously brought on by the terrible news.”
“Obviously. That is why I sent for you even before Her Highness began labour. Will it survive?”
“I think, with care...”
“Then give it care. Move in if you have to. But be there, all the time.”
“I will do that, Your Excellency. May I ask...”
“No,” Anna said. “Ask nothing. Just make sure that boy lives.”
The future Prince of Bolugayen, she thought, as she returned downstairs and called for
a bottle of champagne; Alexei had confided part of his problem to her. But now Alexei was gone. She was still sitting, by herself, sipping her drink — she was on her second bottle — when Boscowski was admitted. The bailiff was twisting his hat in his hands. “I am sorry to say, Your Excellency, that we have been unable to find Count Colin. Or should I be saying Prince Colin?”
“I think that would be premature, Boscowski. Count Colin will do for now. You say you cannot find him. You checked the train?”
“He did not take the train, Your Excellency.”
“Because he knew that is where we would look. Very good, Boscowski. You have done all you could.”
“I shall, of course, continue the search,” Boscowski said. “I will send to both Kharkov and Kiev. We will find him, Your Excellency.”
“No,” Anna said. “I do not wish you to do that, Boscowski.”
“But, Your Excellency, if he were to join the forces, he could be killed.”
“To bring him back, virtually in chains, would be more humiliation than he could stand. Besides, is it not the duty of every Russian, whether he be prince or peasant, to fight for the Motherland? And if necessary, to die for the Motherland? I think we should let Count Colin follow his own instincts.” Boscowski so far forgot himself as to scratch his head. This woman had sent him out in great haste only a few hours previously, just to prevent the boy following his instincts: And to let the man who could possibly already be the Prince Bolugayevski just disappear into the sunset...
“Thank you, Boscowski,” Anna said. “I am very pleased with you. Now drink with me a toast to the new...to Princess Priscilla’s child.”
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