“I suppose it is plain, Princess,” said Anna. “It is not a very attractive church, yet I have found it warm and comfortable. The people who attend Mass there are mostly poor, and the church is near a noisy, crowded marketplace. Maybe I like it so much because it reminds me of home. It’s probably not suited for you, Princess.”
“No, Anna, tell me more about it. If it’s like your church at home, I’m certain I should like it.”
“It is beautiful in its own way. The columns are carved in ornate patterns and the golden cupola dome glints in the summer sunshine. The icons on all the walls are larger and more beautiful than any we have in the churches at home.”
“We will go to St. Andrew’s, Anna—this very evening!”
———
Several hours later the two girls walked into the somber stone church. The scent of incense filled the air, and a dozen other worshipers filed in with them.
Anna had hardly taken note before of the simple, coarse clothing worn by most of the congregation. But it contrasted markedly with the fine dress of the Princess, whose appearance caused questioning heads to turn in her direction. If Katrina noticed either the looks or the contrast, however, she showed no sign of concern.
They purchased candles from a vendor.
“And who will you light your candles for, Anna?”
“For your brother, and your father, Princess,” said Anna, “if you would not think me presumptuous.”
“You have become so much like a member of our family, Anna. I am touched that you would think of them. I know they will be grateful also.”
Katrina paused, started to go, then stopped. “Let me buy a candle to light for your palace guard. We don’t want to leave anyone out. And don’t tell anyone, Anna, but I’ve got two for Dmitri. Do you think anyone will mind?”
Anna smiled. “I think right now he needs the extra prayers.”
They approached the altar reverently and Katrina felt odd stirrings within her. The ceremony and the lavish vestments and the magnificent liturgy of the church had occasioned moments of awe in her from time to time. But today, in this humble church surrounded by simple men and women, something deeper inside her spirit fluttered to life. Perhaps it was Anna’s presence beside her. Perhaps it was a result of praying with Fingal and Anna in the garden. Or perhaps the feelings stemmed from the fact that for once in her life her focus was entirely—or nearly so—off herself and directed toward others.
Whatever the reasons, as she knelt and made the sign of the cross against her chest, she had a very real sense that her prayers ascended to heaven, there to be heard by a God who was not merely an almighty omnipotent Deity, but a friend as well.
Katrina and Anna lit their candles from the central taper and pressed them into place in the candle receptacle at the altar. Theirs joined hundreds of others, forming a great shining glow at the front of the cathedral. One might have thought that all of St. Petersburg had the same idea at that moment of dark uncertainty for their nation. If those candles did indeed represent prayers rising to the ears of the Most High God, they might well have echoed Katrina’s simple supplication:
“God of the world, I have never heard of Plevna. I have never even laid eyes on a real Turk. But now they put such fear in my heart I think I can hardly bear it. Help me to trust my dear loved ones into your hands. And please, dear God, protect them and bring them home safely. Give us all strength to endure this terrible time, especially for our men who are far away in a strange country, alone and perhaps frightened. Amen.”
Beside her, Anna’s prayers were mostly silent, for she prayed for Sergei, and her pleas mingled confusion of heart with anxiety for his well-being. Her prayers for her family were happy yet homesick ones. And her concerns for her mistress were being answered already, in the bosom of young Princess Katrina Fedorcenko, who knelt at her side.
62
The morning after his daughter and her maid had lit candles in St. Andrew’s on his behalf, Viktor stood solemnly toward the rear of a small gathering of the general staff at the tsar’s headquarters outside Plevna.
The tsar and grand duke had summoned the highest ranking of their staff for a private Mass and worship service. Prince Fedorcenko was among them, but his attention was only half focused on the priest’s chanting in front of him. His mind and heart were instead occupied with events taking place in the little valley below, where the explosions of shells and cries of battle could be heard. Much to his chagrin, however, the smoke of gunpowder was already so thick that he could barely see the progress of the army through the window.
The fighting had begun several hours earlier with the heavy shelling of the Turkish forts. The tsar’s only intervention as his brother had drawn up plans for the battle was to forbid any direct shelling of the town itself. By this time most of the Turkish troops had either spread out to the surrounding forts or else lined Plevna’s fortified walls. In the heart of the town, the majority of its population, Christian Bulgars rather than Turks, awaited the outcome in fear.
For a week, Turkish artillery fire against the limited forays of the Russian forces diminished. Concluding that the enemy’s supplies were at last dwindling and that the tide of their fortunes was about to turn, the Grand Duke Nicholas had ordered an all-out assault to overrun Plevna and the Turkish forts for good.
Viktor was not the only regimental commander standing that day listening to the priest’s incantations who felt the horrifying irony. Even as they worshiped and invoked God’s blessings, their own young men, sons of Russia, were dying outside. But this was the tsar’s Name Day, the day of St. Alexander Nevesky on the church calendar, and in Russia such was occasion for celebration. The grand duke and the tsar’s two sons thought it would be a fine Name Day gift to deliver up a surrendered Plevna to their brother and father, Tsar of all Russia. Thus the attack had been ordered to honor St. Alexander, and here they all stood listening to the mingled sounds of Mass and gunfire.
Following the ceremony the group retired to the grand duke’s quarters where several bottles of champagne were uncorked. The bubbly wine was poured out and all the men present drank to the tsar’s health, attempting to maintain the facade of optimism that the forts would soon begin to fall into their hands.
The emperor, however, soon became subdued in his mood, even distracted. His mind, too, was below on the field of battle. He lifted his glass in a single toast, quietly but fervently expressing what lay at the forefront of his thoughts: “To the health of our great army now engaged in battle!”
Within minutes, champagne and St. Alexander were all but forgotten as every man present went outside to determine the progress of the fighting. It was already clear, though no one had yet voiced it, that they had been deceived. The lessening of artillery from the forts had been another clever ruse on the part of Osman. And the grand duke had again walked straight into his trap. The Imperial Army was even now being met with a heavy barrage of gunfire and cannon shelling from the city and every one of the forts. All illusions of a quick victory were going up in smoke, even as the commanders watched, and some silently cursed Nicholas for yet another costly strategical blunder.
Viktor tried in vain to observe the battle through field glasses, but through the heavy smoke all he could make out was the regiment of the Cossack General Skobelev. Even in the mayhem of battle, the bold and flamboyant officer was difficult to miss, the “White General” sitting astride his white horse in his white uniform. Skobelev was at the moment leading a portion of the left flank against one of the main forward redoubts, a Turkish mud fort which they had as yet been unable to overrun. In spite of the nickname “earthenware pots” given these fortifications by the Russian soldiers, they had proved impenetrable. The walls were thick and solid, and behind them hundreds of Turks with ample guns, ammunition, and cannon shells made easy prey of Russians approaching on the plain. Skobelev and his troops were drawing heavy cannon fire from the fort, but they continued to push the attack with the tenacity of a rampaging bear.
Vik
tor considered riding nearer the front for a report of progress of the battle. There was no efficient system of runners relaying information from the front back to command. No doubt Nicholas considered it enough to have begun the battle and no longer wanted to be bothered with its details. Maybe it was for the best that the frontline commanders were left to their own devices rather than constantly troubled by the inept grand duke trying to interfere. The only word to reach command thus far had been from an American newspaper correspondent, who reported grim tidings for the Russians.
Viktor could stand idly by no longer. He called his aid to ready his mount.
63
As he observed the Cossack general struggling to advance his men toward the fort of Grivitsa, Fedorcenko’s scanning eyes roved unknowingly in search of his own son. In the heat of battle, Viktor did not see Sergei.
Sergei’s unit had been dispatched to give support to Skobelev’s efforts, and the battle for the fortified breastwork of Grivitsa would prove to be one of the most grisly days of his life. Even compared to all the previous battles, Sergei had yet to confront such a ghastly onslaught, for he had not yet stood eye to eye, sword to sword, hand to hand against the enemy, in the knowledge that death was the dividing line between them.
Turkish guns, many of which were rumored to be of English make, were deadly efficient and taking a terrible toll. Bodies of the fallen were so numerous that attempts to remove the corpses severely impeded the progress of the advancing army. Sergei could barely control his nausea as he climbed over the bleeding, shattered, disfigured forms of his comrades, stopping when he could to assist medics remove or aid those still living. Smoke and dust, gunfire and cries of agony were everywhere. Sergei staggered on with the others, nearly losing his balance and collapsing over the dead form of a Romanian officer, yet moving, always moving onward up the hill in the direction of the general’s white steed. He choked down the bile rising in his throat and fought away the tears which seemed intent on robbing him of what his commander had called “the finest hour of his manhood.” All the while he steeled himself against the forlorn cries and wailings of the wounded about him.
Once the artillery had left its bloody mark, the Turkish army began to pour out of their forts and bunkers and hilltop strongholds. With passionate screams of Allah . . . Allah! they advanced in massive thousands down the hills, drowning out not only the Russian war cries but filling every son of the Motherland with a heart of dread.
The scene for a man of Sergei’s sensitivities had been horrifying enough before. Now all sense of reality disappeared. Everything around him took on nightmarish proportions. Colors became indiscernible to his eyes. Sounds faded into the distance. Time and movement slowed. He could not direct his thoughts. All was a dream. Everything was gray—all, that is, but the color of blood. All was unreal except the cries of pain and dying.
He was running, but he did not know where . . . or why. In the mayhem and confusion of the nightmare, shouts and explosions of artillery and the metallic clanging of steel against steel penetrated his brain in random array. He could make no sense of what he saw or heard. He could feel his own finger against the trigger of his rifle, yet the report from its barrel seemed too distant for him to have caused it. Who were all these men flying and running and falling and shouting about him? Why were they here? Every movement became action and reaction. There could be no order, no thought behind any action. Pure reflex. Fundamental manhood. Kill or be killed.
Everywhere were men—Russians, Romanians, Turks! Rifle fire was useless at such tight range. Swords gleamed brightly in the air. Now Sergei’s bayonet was glistening in the sunlight with them. He swung it wildly, skillfully, although he knew not what he was doing. The cornered bear fought for its life. Thoughts of Anna flitted through his brain, a winged angel lighting momentarily in the midst of this awful nightmare. He would fight, he would survive! He must live to see his angel again! A seventeen-year-old Turk with the cry of his god on his lips fell wasted at his feet, though Sergei scarcely saw him, nor noticed the blood dripping from his own bayonet as he continued across the battle plain. He blocked a bayonet lunged toward his head, spun about, and impaled its owner in one fatal thrust. Spinning again, he parried a jab from a curved scimitar, ducked a blow from the butt of a rifle, and ran forward, leaping over bodies, keeping his head low to dodge the treacherous artillery fire that flew in his direction.
His comrades began to fall back before the Turkish horde. Sergei stopped and stood straight, then looked about. Ahead through the grim scene of horror and death he caught a glimpse of the White General attempting to rally his troops, his sabre held aloft, shouting, “Russia . . . Russia . . . onward for the Motherland! Death to Ottoman!”
Next to the mounted Skobelev, Sergei could just discern Mikhail Grigorov on foot, fighting to protect the position of his leader. The young Cossack Lieutenant was firing and swinging his bayonet wildly, cutting down all onrushing Turks who would threaten the position of his commander.
The fog of Sergei’s nightmare lifted momentarily. Suddenly his eyes beheld the two—the White General on his snowy steed, the brave and honorable Cossack soldier beside him, willing to lay down his life for his leader, willing to fight to the death to protect the advance.
They will make it through! Sergei thought to himself. They will not fail . . . they will not be pushed back . . . and I will join them! I will be with them when they take the fort and vanquish the foe!
Two or three hundred feet separated Sergei from the white knight and his noble protector and companion. He found his feet again and stumbled forward, no longer conscious for his own safety. After ten more minutes of labor and fighting, he stood beside the horse at the Cossack’s side. Without a word he took up the fight to protect Skobelev from the charging Turks who would slay the Russian leader.
“Ha, ha!” laughed Grigorov with a grin as Sergei came alongside. “You have made it! Perhaps we will have that game tonight after all!”
They fought together, then were separated.
Two Turks rushed Sergei at once. He thrust at one with his bayonet, pushing him back with the barrel of his rifle. Then he noticed the dark blood covering his bayonet.
“Oh God, what have I done?” he cried in a sickening anguish of heart. Hardly realizing what he did, he threw the weapon away in disgust, and the next instant leaped aside just in time to avoid a blow from the second Turk’s saber. Had he been a second slower it surely would have killed him. The tip of the man’s blade tore through his shoulder bars, slicing his left arm and drawing blood.
The sudden pain filled him with all the rage of man’s lower nature. The enemy had already brought his blade up for another lunge. With a scream of hysterical fury, Sergei side-stepped the blow, even as his own hand drew the saber at his belt and sliced the Turk mortally in his side. The man fell, but Sergei’s numbed conscience did not pause even for a moment to reflect on the death he inflicted for he felt he’d lose his sanity if he did. The dying man slumped to the ground.
Another enemy soldier was on him, this time in a full body attack. The man carried no gun or sword, but his hulking, muscular body was weapon enough. The massive beast knocked Sergei to the ground, and in the instant he struck the hard earth, out of the corner of his eyes he saw the blurred form of another Turk charging him with bayonet outstretched to spear the fallen victim. He rolled to his right just as the weapon stabbed through the hard dirt only an inch from his wounded shoulder. Saber still in hand, Sergei lurched forward, and while the Turk was recovering his balance from the misplaced blow, Sergei drove it straight through his heart.
He lurched to his feet, blood splattered over his uniform and dripping from his sabre, great tears of anguish spilling from his eyes. He tried to stand, but the next moment fell hunched over on his knees, gagging and retching, his face pale and faint at the vileness of his deed.
All around him the battle raged. Though Skobelev’s regiment continued to make headway toward the fort of Grivitsa, the rest of the Im
perial Army was falling back, in many places simply fleeing before the Turkish troops pouring down the mountainside against them. The pungent stench of gunpowder stung Sergei’s eyes and throat. As he crawled back up to his feet, he could not stay the flow of tears from his eyes. He desperately wanted to believe that the blood smeared across his hands and uniform had come from the wound in his own shoulder, but he knew it was not so.
Suddenly the sword became heavy in his hand. He could barely grasp its handle. How could he have wielded it so long?
There was Skobelev again! He was still nearby, still mounted upon his horse. Saber dragging in the dirt, Sergei lifted his weary feet and plodded toward him.
There was Grigorov! He had fallen, crumpling to the ground.
“No!” screamed Sergei, the blood suddenly returning to his dazed head. He ran forward. A huge Turk approached the fallen Cossack from behind, raising his rifle in the air, poised to run the lieutenant through with his bayonet where he lay helpless on the ground.
“No!” Sergei cried again, flinging himself toward them, but the din of battle drowned out his voice.
It took him but a second or two to reach them. He lunged toward the Turk—it was the only way to keep his friend from being cruelly pinned to the earth. With sword outstretched, he threw himself at the man and pierced him through the back. The light of triumph faded from the Turk’s eyes and he slumped dead on the ground. At the instant Sergei had leaped through the air toward Grigorov’s assailant, a Turkish bullet found its mark in his thigh. With a cry of shock and pain, Sergei followed his sword to the ground, sprawling out on the body of the Turk he had just killed.
Grigorov came to himself, his head grazed by a bullet. Even with blood dripping in his eyes, nearly blinding him, he knew that Sergei had saved his life. In a sudden panic, thinking the prince was dead, he tried to rise but fell back dizzily. Rather than attempting to find his feet again, he crawled toward Sergei and pulled him free of the Turk.
The Russians Collection Page 39