The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  “I do pray for them, of course,” rejoined Katrina, with just a hint of defensiveness.

  “I mean, really pray for them, Princess, so that you truly know God has their care in His hands.”

  “Well . . . I don’t know. I say a prayer for them every day out of my prayer book.”

  “Ah, but there we are again back at trying to learn faith as you do any other subject. I do not say that a memorized prayer from your book is not a good thing, Princess. But it can never satisfy the longings of your heart to touch both God your Maker and your loved ones on the field of battle. The prayer of faith that your heart is urging you toward must come from somewhere deeper than mere words you read from a page. Faith, as I said, is a matter of the heart, not of the brain.”

  The trio in the garden fell silent in the warmth of the sunshine. For several minutes all were absorbed in their private thoughts.

  “Will you teach us to pray that way, Fingal?” said Anna softly, breaking the quiet at last.

  “I cannot think of anything that would make me happier than to pray with my two dear ones, Princess Katrina and her maid, Anna,” replied the Scotsman. “I will pray with you. But as for teaching you, prayer is something all must learn to do for themselves, taught by the One who taught His disciples to pray.”

  He paused a moment, sat down on the soft grass near the garden bench where Katrina was sitting and said, “Let us pray together. We will pray for your families—your brother and father, Katrina, and your family in the country, Anna.”

  Anna, who had been leaning against the trunk of a birch tree, sat down beside it and closed her eyes, as did Fingal, who then spoke out softly in prayer:

  “Lord God, our Maker and our Father, I thank you for these precious dear ones whom you love. I thank you for allowing me to share their lives, and for the love that you have put in my heart for them. Lord, we respond right now to those stirrings within our hearts toward our loved ones far away, especially those of Russia’s brave men who toil even now on the battlefields in the mountains of Bulgaria. We ask for your hand of care and protection, O God, to surround and keep our master and Katrina’s father, Prince Fedorcenko and his son Sergei Viktorovich. Protect them from harm, and stir our hearts within us to hold them by our own prayers in your presence. Give us faith to believe in your love, our Father, faith in our hearts, not in whatever knowledge we may have about you, and give us obedient hands to respond to that faith in all that you give us to do.”

  The tutor fell silent. A gentle rustling breeze played through the leaves overhead.

  Although she had never prayed aloud except with her family, Fingal’s words had set in motion the inner cries of Anna’s own heart. Without planning it, suddenly her lips unloosed in bold affirmation of faith—a faith which had been growing and deepening within her for years, and now broke through the surface.

  “God, I pray for my family at home, especially my dear father and my brother Paul. Be with them and help my father’s grain to grow strong and abundant. Give them enough to eat and keep them healthy. Thank you, God, for Princess Katrina and her kindness to me and for letting me be here. Keep her father the prince safe at the war . . . and Prince Sergei . . .”

  She paused momentarily, but quickly swallowed the lump that rose in her throat. “And all their friends in the army and the young men of our country. And for the nice guard I met at the palace, wherever he is I ask that you protect him and watch over him. Give me more faith, God, for I want to be good and do right.”

  Anna fell silent. A wave of embarrassment swept over her for having prayed so freely, yet the contentment in her heart from the release of deep emotions more than made up for it.

  Katrina sat in numbed silence. Never had she heard such prayers spoken so earnestly, so personally. Terrified, something inside her yet struggled to free itself from her bondage to tradition, and to speak out in prayer as the others had done.

  Several minutes passed. Fingal sensed the struggle that was going on in the mind of his mistress and let time quietly do its work while he said nothing. At last, in a barely audible voice, Katrina broke the silence.

  “God, I don’t know how to pray . . . because I never have . . . just talked to you. But if you listen when we pray this way, then I want to pray for my father and my brother Sergei. Please keep them from harm in the war . . . bring them home soon . . .”

  She stopped, as if gathering courage, then continued. “And I pray for Dmitri, that he would get well and not be in great pain.” She paused again, then added, “And I thank you for Anna too, God, and for sending her to me so that we could be friends.”

  “Amen,” added Fingal softly.

  A long silence followed. At last Fingal rose, then helped the two girls to their feet.

  “I think perhaps, between history, politics, religion, and prayer, we have had sufficient lessons for one morning,” he said with a smile. “It is no doubt nearly time for your luncheon.”

  Katrina returned his smile and nodded. But as they made their way slowly out of the garden and back to the house, no one seemed anxious to see the morning end.

  60

  The sounds of battle had temporarily subsided around the town of Plevna in the Balkan foothills two hundred miles northwest of Constantinople.

  Preparations were underway for another attack against the town, which had been even more heavily fortified with the arrival of additional Turkish troops. All the smaller forts had been shored up with more men and guns and cannons, creating a twelve-mile barrier against the Russian attack. The cunning Turkish commander Osman Pasha and his men were ready behind their thick walls of stone for any onslaught.

  At the same time the arrival of reinforcements had doubled the size of the Russian army. The tsar had negotiated for the assistance of Romanian forces as well, adding still another forty thousand troops to their number. The narrow roads and valleys in and around Plevna were filled with hundreds of thousands of men, Turks and Russians and their allies, every man among them awaiting orders to begin the carnage.

  The evening before the attack, many of the officers found time to engage in whatever recreation they could invent for themselves. Dmitri had initiated a game of cards, and Sergei and two of their fellow officers joined them. The party was rounded out by three Cossacks, Mikhail Grigorov among them. He and Sergei had met once or twice in St. Petersburg, although they were hardly even considered acquaintances, and they now greeted one another with only a nod.

  “So, what do you think of my little casino, eh men?” said Dmitri, lighting a candle.

  “For a supply tent, you might at least have chosen one without the aroma of dead rats and dried fish!” jeered one of the company.

  “Where else but in such a hole will we be safe from prying eyes and ears?”

  “Why do we need to hide? I for one would prefer a table to these supply crates.”

  “Why, indeed,” said Dmitri, “except for these?” From inside his coat he produced two bottles of vodka with a flourish.

  “Against regulations, Dmitri,” said Sergei. “Although I should have suspected it when I saw that gleam in your eye an hour ago. Where did you get them?”

  “I have my sources,” laughed Dmitri.

  “And if we are discovered, it will be the front lines for us all tomorrow!”

  “Relax, my friend! Now come, all of you, find a stool or a box and gather round.” As he spoke, Dmitri constructed a makeshift table from several of the crates in the place, and within ten minutes the game was underway.

  As the liquor flowed and the money changed hands, tensions gradually mounted between the army regulars and the Cossacks. The image of the Cossack as inefficient and uneducated persisted even into modern times, and this prejudice was never far from the surface in the minds of soldiers of the Imperial Army, especially those officers from an aristocratic background. The typical Cossack was cunning and bold, and served the tsar invaluably with superb horsemanship by scouting and getting messages through enemy lines; yet they wer
e looked down upon and often abused among the ranks of army regulars who considered them altogether a strange breed of rough, peasant soldier.

  As the night wore on, the Cossacks gradually pocketed most of the money which lay atop the center crate, and Grigorov had made an especially good show of it with the play of his cards. Count Remizov, however, did not like to lose, least of all to a low-life Cossack. His pitiful hands, combined with the effects of the alcohol and the frustration that his wound would keep him out of the up-coming battle, made him particularly surly.

  Grigorov raised Dmitri’s wager by five rubles, tossing his money into the pot with as much cool assurance as he displayed on the battlefield. Dmitri glanced down at his cards, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

  “You can’t possibly be holding a hand that strong, not after just winning the last pile,” said Dmitri, his tone laced with accusation.

  “What does that mean?” asked Grigorov tautly.

  “It means a man can only be so lucky. You are either trying to bluff me, or else you—”

  Dmitri broke off suddenly as the other Cossacks pushed back their stools and began to rise to their feet.

  “Just a moment,” cut in Sergei sharply. “There is no cheating going on here. You misunderstand my friend. He only meant that the Cossack Lieutenant must have a powerful icon in his pocket. Isn’t that so, Dmitri?”

  Still glaring at Grigorov, Dmitri relented. The officers had a numerical advantage of one over the Cossacks, but that advantage was Dmitri and he had a lame arm. To incite a pitched hand-to-hand fight with these Cossacks now would be foolish and could well get one of his friends hurt; maybe even killed. Besides, vodka and all, Dmitri knew the Cossack wasn’t cheating—not this time anyway. But he would watch him with an eagle eye.

  “Five rubles?” he said tightly. “I think you are bluffing.”

  “It will take five rubles for you to find out, Count Remizov,” Grigorov replied.

  Dmitri tossed in the money and Grigorov laid down his cards for all to see. Almost the same moment Dmitri’s good hand smashed down, breaking the crate in two and sending the money flying in all directions.

  “Blast you and your foul Cossack luck!” he cried. “Bring another one of those crates over here and deal the cards!”

  “I am afraid this game has already gone one hand too long,” laughed Grigorov, stooping down to pick up the money. “It is late, and there will be much to do tomorrow.”

  “So, this is Cossack courtesy?” sneered Dmitri. “Abandon the game while you are ahead?”

  “It is the best time, I would say,” rejoined Grigorov.

  Sergei joined in the laughter, giving the Cossack lieutenant an admiring nod.

  “I will give you the satisfaction of an opportunity to win your money back tomorrow evening if you wish,” said Grigorov.

  “With my luck,” moped Dmitri, “you will all be killed in the battle and will deny me my opportunity to get even.”

  “I shall attempt to remain alive at all costs, then—for your benefit, Count.”

  Sergei laughed again and gave Dmitri a thump on the back. “Come on, Dmitri—what more could you ask for than that?”

  “Tomorrow then,” mumbled Dmitri, still seated. He did not bother to rise or shake the other man’s offered hand.

  Sergei walked the three Cossacks outside the tent before going back to retrieve his half-drunk friend.

  It was a clear, crisp night with a hint of approaching autumn in the air. The stars from the mountainous heights seemed larger and brighter than Sergei remembered them being at home. This was beautiful, wild, rugged country and he regretted he could not travel here during more peaceful times. With a sigh he realized that he would never be able to recall this land without the pervasive stench of gunpowder, blood, and death filling his memory.

  The two other Cossacks and the other Army officers were walking down the hillside in opposite directions, but Grigorov paused and turned back toward Sergei.

  “Thank you for your intercession in there, Sergei Viktorovich,” he said. “I did not wish for trouble.”

  “Neither did I, Lieutenant.”

  “I almost hoped for a losing hand,” Grigorov chuckled.

  “But what man can throw away winning cards, eh?”

  “Indeed! I probably should have, but I couldn’t make myself do it.” He paused. “I wasn’t cheating, you know?” he added.

  “I know.”

  “I suggested another game tomorrow only to avert trouble. But I doubt that would be wise. Your friend the count is something of a hothead, and does not take well to losing.”

  Sergei laughed. “How well I know! How many times have I pulled him out of brawls that his temper would instigate before his reason had the chance to catch up.”

  “Every man like Remizov needs a friend like you.”

  Sergei laughed again. “But in any case, he is an honorable man—deep inside, at least. It is your prerogative whether to return tomorrow. Perhaps Dmitri will win back some of his losses. The odds would seem to favor him. In the meantime though, Lieutenant, I think we have other things to think about.”

  “Yes. One battle at a time, eh, Prince Fedorcenko?”

  Sergei nodded. “Godspeed tomorrow.”

  “And to you.”

  “I am glad you spoke to me. You too are a man of honor.”

  “For a Cossack, at least, eh?” Grigorov replied. His grin bore a hint of defensiveness.

  “For a Russian! That is a name to do any man proud.” Sergei smiled.

  The two men shook hands and parted. Sergei returned to find Dmitri unmoved from his seat. He gathered up his best friend, threw his coat over his shoulders, blew out the candle, and then began the walk down to their own tent, Dmitri leaning upon him, half-unconscious.

  Sergei shook his head and smiled ironically at Dmitri. He was a rake and a bit of a scoundrel, and he seldom took life seriously. How they had managed to be such close friends since boyhood he could never understand, with the frustrations Dmitri continually caused him. Yet they complemented one another, as opposites often do. Sergei could appreciate the good times he often had with Dmitri, as long as the vodka didn’t get out of hand. And Dmitri, on his part, was well aware of the steadying and positive influence Sergei had on him.

  He had meant it when he told Grigorov that Dmitri was a man of honor. Sergei would trust his life into his friend’s hands. At the same time, however, he was glad Dmitri would be out of the battle tomorrow. It had been a terrifying experience for Sergei to see his friend cut down by a Turkish bullet and not be able to reach him for hours to find out whether he was alive or dead.

  That was not an experience he wanted to relive. Sergei would rather take a bullet in the heart himself than to see Dmitri fall in battle again. He would enter the battle tomorrow prepared to meet his own fate, knowing that Dmitri lay safely behind the lines.

  Sergei eased Dmitri down on his cot and stretched out his legs on his blankets. He then took up his notebook where he kept his journal and spent the next hour recording the feelings of a novice young Russian officer on the eve of a great battle. Tomorrow night, if he lived, he would add to the account.

  If only these notes might someday . . .

  Sergei could not even complete a sentence without his thoughts turning to Anna, and the hope that they would soon be together again. Dear Anna . . . if only he had the courage to write to her! He longed to share with her every moment, every thought. But he could not risk Katrina or his mother intercepting the letter. He dared not! If they read what he ached to tell Anna, it would probably result in her instant dismissal—or worse.

  He would have to wait. They would have all their lives to share together. Then he could tell her everything! But for now he must survive this ordeal, if only to see her sweet face once more!

  61

  The afternoon had been a tedious one and lessons had been suspended for the day. Katrina and Anna had just returned to their rooms, where the princess sat down wearily in he
r favorite chair.

  “Would you go to Mass with me, Anna?” she said abruptly.

  “Yes, of course, Princess, if you like. Why?” replied Anna in some surprise.

  It had been several days since their talk with Fingal and the subject of God or prayer or church had not come up, although Katrina had been to church with her mother once during that time.

  “I don’t know. I’ve just been thinking about all those things Fingal said, that’s all. I thought we might go together and pray and light candles for . . . you know, for Sergei and Dmitri—and my father, of course . . . and your family.”

  “I would like to do that, Princess.”

  “Does Mass help you, Anna? Does it make you feel like I felt the other day when we were praying?”

  “Oh yes, very much! I can’t explain why, but somehow it makes me feel closer to God. I feel more complete as a person, stronger.”

  “Why do the priests never talk about God, or pray to Him as Fingal did? I’ve never heard anything like that, have you, Anna? He talked to God as if He were sitting right there with us!”

  “My father prays like that,” replied Anna. “God is his friend. That is how he always taught me to think of Him.”

  “I always thought God was supposed to be like the huge icon behind the priest at St. Isaac’s. Now I don’t know what to think.”

  “Perhaps Mass would help,” suggested Anna. “I think it would be nice for us to go.”

  “Just the two of us, together.”

  “Would you like to go someplace besides St. Isaac’s, Princess?” asked Anna. “Polya and I have gone to Mass at a smaller church on Vassily Island. I like it very much.”

  “But only working class people live there.”

  “It is a humble church, Princess. I only thought you might like it—for a change.”

  “What is it like?”

  Anna smiled to herself when she thought of trying to describe St. Andrew’s. She had called it little, yet it was far larger than St. Gregory’s in Akulin, and probably rivaled the largest churches even in Pskov.