The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  Anna was silent. It took Sergei a few moments to realize that his words had hurt her.

  “Don’t mistake me, Anna. My heart is so grateful that you are here—call it a fairy tale, call it whatever you wish. I was only saying that for most Russians, except for the privileged few, their lives are a matter of fate. Look at me—I am a prince, yet even I have few choices open to me. I serve in the tsar’s army at the whim of my father, who dictated that I would follow a military career. So please, do not misunderstand me. I meant no harm.”

  He placed his hand on hers where it sat in her lap. Her heart fluttered, but she kept her hand still.

  “From that first moment when I noticed you watching the ice skaters with such sweet wonder on your face, even before you had spoken a word, I could tell that you were a girl like none I had seen before, Anna. It came as no surprise to me that we were able to talk so easily and shared so many of the same interests and pleasures. Didn’t you feel it too, Anna?”

  Anna’s heart pounded wildly. Were her ears playing tricks on her? A Prince of St. Petersburg speaking so to her!

  “Anna, do you know what I am saying?” the prince went on, pouring his heart out with his words. “You have become my fairy tale, Anna! A good fairy tale, where the prince falls in love with his sister’s maid. And I dare not let it end because the tsar and my father and men like them send nations to war for causes I care nothing about! I will not let it end!”

  It was a dream . . . a fairy tale! She must be ill, lying in bed with a fever, dreaming deliriously! But the strange, unbelievable, wonderful chords continued to vibrate her eardrums, persistent in their declarations. Unconsciously she slipped her hand from Sergei’s.

  “Don’t be afraid, Anna,” he said. “As my heart is pure in what I tell you, I will never hurt you, never lie to you. I only want you to know how my heart cares for you, so that when I go . . .”

  His voice stopped. He seemed unsure of what more he had wanted to say.

  Anna’s own heart longed to cry out, but her voice remained mute in the shock of overwhelming emotion that was flooding her mind.

  The silence was a long one. The distant roar of the Neva, with its clamor of winter run-off, was the only sound in the deserted corner of the garden. When Sergei spoke again, his voice was matter-of-fact, almost businesslike, as if everything but a few details had been decided.

  “In a few days I must leave for the war,” he said. “There is no telling how long I shall be gone. Some are saying we will reach Constantinople in less than a month. But the Turks may be a more fearsome foe than we realize. However long it is, when I return, I plan to prepare for us to be together. My father may well disinherit me. He may be liberal in some of his politics, but even he has his limits. I don’t care about all that. I never have. After all, are not such things the stuff of fairy tales?”

  He laughed curtly, unable to hide the edge of bitterness that crept into his tone at the thought of his father’s reaction.

  “But whether I care what people think or not, I must consider how we shall sustain ourselves. The army provides a paltry living, especially for a man with a wife. Perhaps I shall write; what do you say to that, Anna?”

  Still Anna said nothing. At the word wife, a thousand tiny explosions had gone off in her brain.

  “I am saying all this so that you will realize it may take some time before we can be together, even after I have returned. You may have to keep pampering and dressing and serving my sister for a season. But I will return—of that I promise you—to take you away, like every prince in every good fairy tale!”

  All the while he had been talking Anna had been sitting like a dumbfounded statue. Suddenly it occurred to Sergei that he had been acting exactly like the overbearing aristocrats he so despised. He had not asked Anna; he had simply told her how he planned their lives to be. No wonder she had not responded!

  Shamed, he hung his head and began again. “Anna, please forgive me,” he said humbly, taking her hand in his. “I have not done this properly at all.” He looked into her face, an expression of infinite tenderness filling his eyes. “You mean everything to me, dear Anna. Will you consider becoming . . . my wife?”

  Anna’s eyes filled with tears. She could not speak, but she nodded once, briefly, as one tear spilled over, making a shiny track down her cheek. At last she spoke, though it was barely a whisper.

  “Prince Sergei . . . I . . . I don’t know what to say.”

  “Oh, Anna, you need say nothing. Just tell me you do not despise me for my boldness, nor regret that day when I found you in the sleigh beside the river just down there.”

  “I do not regret that day, Prince Sergei,” said Anna in the same trembling whisper, “and I could never despise you.”

  “I will do honorably by you, Anna. You deserve no less. We will be able to hold our heads high, whether in palace or izba.” He paused. “It is late. We must not stay away indefinitely. But I have one thing more for you.”

  He took a small package from inside his uniform jacket.

  “This is a farewell gift,” he said. “More than a mere Easter present, so that you will think of me while I am gone, and never forget this evening.” He handed it to her.

  “It would be impossible for me to forget this evening,” she answered, taking the package and slowly tearing back the paper wrapping. From inside she pulled out a small volume, its cover embossed in gold. “The Best of England’s Poets.”

  “They are in French,” he said, his eyes glowing enthusiastically as he noted the look of pleasure on her face. “Besides English, I think it does the poems the best justice. And Katrina says your French is already as good as hers. I’m also very fond of Browning, and there are a lot of his poems included too.”

  “Who would have thought a year ago,” exclaimed Anna, “that I would have such a beautiful volume, much less be able to read it!” She flipped through a few pages, peering down in the faint light. “At least I shall perhaps be able to read some of it!”

  They laughed together.

  Anna ran her hand along the finely embossed binding of brown calfskin. “Thank you, Prince Sergei,” she said. “I shall love this book as much—”

  She stopped, fearing she had already said too much. She glanced up into his face, and he saw the single tear which had escaped from one of her eyes.

  “Say nothing more, dear Anna,” said Sergei, wiping the tear away gently with his thumb. “You have given me all I could hope for.” He paused, then spoke again. “‘All I ask—’” he quoted softly, “‘all I wish—is a tear.’”

  55

  Anyone with a drop of Russian blood in his veins could not fail to be stirred by the grand spectacle of the thousands of brightly uniformed troops of the Motherland, marching proudly down Nevsky Prospect on their way to war.

  Viktor Fedorcenko possessed more than a drop of such blood. Russian through and through, and as loyal as any other under the tsar’s command, he was moved as near to tears as a man of iron constitution could be. Such a display of Russian military might, in fact, have moved things deeper within his heart than any of the more human sentiments. Above feelings for wife, daughter, or son, for a man like Prince Viktor Fedorcenko, love of country reigned supreme.

  But as Viktor rode beside the men of his regiment that day, to the cheering of the St. Petersburg throng, the thunder of an ominous portent beat within his heart to the cadence of the drums. The forced precision of his mount’s gait did not betray the apprehensive misgivings still lurking deep within his soul over the tsar’s decision. Even deeper lay the ache, the hurt, and the fear caused by Alexander’s mistrust of his loyalty. But events were moving rapidly, and if he intended to prove his faithfulness to his old friend, he would probably have to do it on the battlefield rather than in the drawing rooms of the Winter Palace. Although the tsar would rely on Fedorcenko’s military experience, he was as likely to turn on him—maybe even send him spitefully into the front of the battle—as on any private suspected of cowardice. It
was a bitter culmination to a distinguished career and long friendship. But such were the misfortunes of life in proximity to a supreme autocrat, whose will and whims were the law of the land.

  In addition to Viktor’s personal reservations about how—and perhaps whether—he would survive this war, as a soldier and military man and veteran of the Crimea, he harbored grave doubts as to their potential success. Proud and virile now, many of these same uniforms would lie on a distant battlefield splattered with blood. Viktor’s more rational nature could not deny the utter futility of this so-called “holy cause.” Had he possessed the advantage of historical foresight, he might have broken down in utter despair. For this war—a small one really as European conflicts went—was destined to open the door to alliances and discord and malice among the states of Europe, changes which would ultimately culminate in the world’s first violent eruption of global war.

  For Viktor Fedorcenko, however, it was enough that crass adventurism, blatant imperialism—for such was the only name his logic could give it—would claim the lives of many valiant sons of the Motherland, including, perhaps, his own. That Alexander remained in distress over the declaration was no great comfort. Alexander hated war, but he was not strong enough to prevent it, any more than he was strong enough to forge a friendship which could weather small incidents such as his last interview with Viktor. He was neither a strong tsar nor a strong friend; how competent would Alexander be in command of his troops on the battlefield?

  The noise of the cheering crowd echoed discordantly in Viktor’s ears as he marched along.

  “Down with the heathen Turks!”

  “On to Constantinople!

  “Save our brother Serbs!”

  “Crush the Ottoman Empire forever!”

  But none of the shouts and hopeful slogans meant as much to Viktor as the silent prayer embossed on the banner held aloft in front of the leading regiment. Above a Greek Orthodox cross on a pure white background with black and orange stripes were emblazoned the words: God Save and Protect.

  “Amen,” Viktor murmured. His voice was obscured by the roar of the multitude the instant the word left his lips.

  ———

  Anna and Katrina, from where they stood viewing the parade, were filled with varied and turbulent emotions, the least of which was the nationalistic fervor of those around them.

  Dutifully Katrina scanned the unending rows for her father, and waved when she thought she caught a glimpse of him. Her heart, however, looked for another. She would never spot Dmitri among the thousands, but hoped that as he marched into the south his association with her brother would serve to remind him of her existence.

  Since their night together in the garden, Anna had purposefully tried to keep thoughts of Sergei from entering her mind. But she could not keep them out of her heart. In her quiet manner, Anna had pondered and treasured the words spoken to her by the young prince who was so far above her, yet suddenly so close to her heart. Now, as she stood gazing upon the vast columns of soldiers, she feared their closeness might have been a dream, after all.

  Both girls were reluctant to voice the silent fear that lay at the bottom of each of their hearts—that they might see neither of their young soldiers again.

  56

  The army crossed the Danube in June, opposed every inch of the way by a murderous barrage of Turkish gunfire. Casualties were heavy from the crossing; the Russians presented perfect targets—true sitting ducks in the water, swollen by frequent spring rains.

  But if the Russian troops were ill-equipped and ill-led by the tsar and his closest relations, they must certainly have been among the most stalwart, heroic fighting forces in the world. Even in that harrowing position forced upon them by a commander who understood next to nothing of the tactics of warfare, the brave young soldiers never panicked nor retreated, and ultimately the crossing was effected.

  Sitting astride his valiantly swimming horse, Viktor glanced about him and felt a surge of pride despite his army’s losses. These were brave men, full of spirit for their cause. Some, on reaching the Bulgarian side, pulled out small pouches of Russian soil from their tunics, knelt down, and poured it onto the Bulgarian earth. The soils were the same. Indeed their cause was just, for this land was as Slavic as their Mother Russia!

  Watching them as he guided his chestnut stallion up the bank onto dry ground, Viktor considered that perhaps their illusions of fighting for a glorious cause were not to be despised. Better to go down believing they were fighting for a righteous end than to die in the despair of futility.

  The echo of gunfire and the explosions of distant cannons rang across the land and the high whining zing of a bullet passed much too close. Notwithstanding the danger, Viktor paused momentarily to look back over his shoulder toward the north shore. There Sergei’s regiment descended into the waters of the Danube to embark upon the crossing. He offered a hasty prayer for his son’s safety, then spurred his own mount toward cover.

  Once on dry ground, the army made fair progress southward. Perhaps they might, after all, reach Constantinople in thirty days. Spirits ran high once the casualties of the Danube were forgotten. The initial Turkish opposition evaporated, and the tsar’s commanders led their men virtually unopposed.

  Within a matter of days they reached the foothills of the Balkan mountains stretching from east to west across the whole of Bulgaria. The road to the Ottoman capital ran straight through these mountains, and the brother of the tsar, Nicholas Nicholavich, whom Alexander had selected as his commander-in-chief, chose the strategically vital Shipka Pass as the route through which he would lead his Russian army. Nicholas, anticipating a quick crossing through the Shipka, was already devising a strategy for the taking of Constantinople.

  As they approached the pass, Nicholas paused his army’s march outside the unpretentious mountain town of Plevna. The place was of no apparent merit except that it stood on the juncture of several important trade routes. It was a walled city surrounded by several strategic forts. There was no other way to traverse the pass except to take the town first and overrun the forts which had been built to protect it. Nicholas, therefore, expected at least some minor opposition.

  A command post was set up on a grassy knoll overlooking the town. The tsar, wearing a shabby old uniform in a well-meant, if futile, attempt to share the life of a common soldier, took up residence in a rustic, sparsely furnished peasant’s cottage nearby. Several of the army’s keenest scouts were sent under the cover of darkness to evaluate the strength of Plevna. Meanwhile, the army made camp and awaited the arrival of the regiments still making their way from the river crossing.

  Shortly after dawn the three scouts returned with shocking news. Their reconnaissance indicated that a huge Turkish force silently awaited them inside Plevna’s walls, an army far superior in numbers to the Russian forces now standing encamped outside.

  “Nonsense!” roared Nicholas. “To outnumber us, Osman Pasha himself would have to be here!” Earlier reports had confirmed the Turkish commander still in the valley of the Danube, expecting the Russians along a different route.

  “Osman is in Plevna,” said one of the men.

  “Did you see him with your own eyes?” shot back the grand duke.

  “No, we heard—”

  “I care nothing for rumors!”

  “It is no rumor that the city is teeming with thousands of Turkish soldiers,” said one of the other scouts.

  “Out of here, all of you!” shouted Nicholas. “Cowards, every one! Did you think you could dissuade me from attacking with your exaggerated reports of Turkish strength? Breathe a word of these lies to the troops and I’ll have you shot for treason!”

  He turned his back on the men. The moment they were gone, he spoke abruptly to an aide. “Get General Krüdener in here.”

  Besides the grand duke, the high command was comprised of the tsar himself and his two sons, the Tsarevich Alexander and his brother Vladimir, both in command of regiments. An inept lot they were.
Nicholas himself could not have more perfectly typified the traditional pitiful Russian leader, cut not out of the mold of Peter or Catherine, but rather out of the same cloth as mad tsar Paul, or the first Romanov of them all, their patriarch Michael, a man certainly undeserving of having begun a dynasty of such vitality.

  Two or three other regimental commanders had been standing outside the tent of the headquarters and had heard every word that had transpired. None of them had been bold enough to dispute the tsar’s choice of commander-in-chief earlier, although they knew that Nicholas possessed not an ounce of military savvy. He did, however, possess sufficient misplaced self-confidence to make him a dangerous man. Every man among them knew that even the tsar would have performed better as their supreme commander; for, though no military man, he would have had the good sense to accept the advice of more knowledgeable and seasoned veterans of battlefield campaigns. Yet the die had been cast when Alexander had chosen his brother to lead his army against the Turks, and none of them dared speak their opinions now.

  When General Krüdener approached a few moments later, the dark look he cast at his regimental leaders before entering the tent told them that he, too, had heard the reconnaissance report. But he must not keep either the tsar or the grand duke waiting. He passed his colleagues and strode inside without a word.

  It did not take long for the order to come. The grand duke had already made his decision.

  “General,” he said, “I want you to assemble your men and attack the city—at noon.”

  “Yes, Your Excellency,” replied General Krüdener. “Will the other regiments have arrived by then?”

  “Other regiments?” boomed Nicholas. “I said nothing about other regiments! I want you to attack it with the brigade you have assembled now!”

  “But, sir,” hesitated Krüdener, “we are not nearly at full strength.”

  “A brigade is sufficient against a mountain village of Bulgarian peasants.”

  “With all due respect, Your Highness, if we could simply delay a day, perhaps two, until our troop strength has been reinforced with those regiments still arriving. According to the reports, Osman made a crossing on the other side and got here—”