‘They have been aroused by the shooting,’ Dagmar said. ‘Well, that is not surprising. I shall speak to them.’
She went towards the porch, and Dubaclov nodded to half a dozen of his men to follow her, as he did himself. Vorontsov followed. Charles felt Anna move against him, and looked down. ‘If they could but be given the lead...’ she whispered.
But the same thought had occurred to Dagmar, who checked in the doorway. ‘If any of the prisoners attempts to make a noise,’ she said. ‘Hit him.’ She looked at her sister. ‘Or, her. Very hard.’ Anna swallowed, and Dagmar stepped outside. It seemed nearly all the town was there, a vast mob gathered on the forecourt, trampling down the flower bushes, surging across the lawns. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ Dagmar demanded. ‘Smyslov? Have you gone mad? Father Alexei? I am surprised at you, associating with such riotous behaviour. Send these people home immediately.’
‘We seek justice, Your Highness,’ Igor said.
Dagmar peered into the darkness. ‘Igor? By God! You are going to hang, Igor, and your wife and children beside you. Colonel Vorontsov, arrest that man.’ Vorontsov signalled four of his policemen forward, and the crowd moved, a ripple through the ranks. Vorontsov hesitated, and looked at the Princess. ‘This is rebellion,’ Dagmar said, loudly. ‘Very well, Colonel Dubaclov, do your duty.’
Dubaclov summoned his Cossacks in turn, and they filed on to the verandah, carbines thrust forward. ‘Igor Bondarevski is under arrest,’ Dubaclov said. ‘If anyone attempts to interfere with the police, my men will fire into you. Colonel Vorontsov, do your duty.’
The Police Colonel led his men down the steps. Again the crowd rippled. ‘If you let them take me, you are less than men!’ Igor shouted. ‘They are perhaps sixty; we are more than two thousand. How many of us can they kill? Rush them.’
The crowd hesitated. It was the age-old fear of authority, of the omnipotent power of these people who represented the Tsar, the most omnipotent of them all. To hasten their decision there came a series of clicks as the Cossacks cocked their pieces. ‘Igor Bondarevski, you are under arrest,’ Vorontsov said. ‘For sedition and incitement to rebellion against your legally constituted Lord, and for being a member of the outlawed organisation known as the Will of the People.’
Those standing to either side of Igor shrank away from him. Igor’s shoulders slumped. ‘Cowards,’ he muttered.
Charles looked down at Anna. Her face was as stoic as ever, but a tear had escaped her right eye and was trickling down her cheek, something he had never expected to see. ‘He had sworn to save me,’ she muttered. There was nothing he could say, as Igor was dragged forward and up the steps.
‘Now,’ Dubaclov called. ‘You people will disperse back to your homes, and pray that your lady Princess does not seek to punish you for your ill behaviour.’
‘Not Smyslov,’ Dagmar said. ‘I want him in here. With his wife.’
‘Monsieur Smyslov,’ Dubaclov called. ‘You’ll come into the house. With madame.’
He checked at the sound of a bugle call. Every head turned to the drive.
Dagmar went to the top of the steps to peer through the darkness at the troop of mounted men which was coming down the drive. Then she uttered a shriek. ‘No! It cannot be! Dubaclov, arrest that man. No, shoot him down! He is a wanted criminal!’
Dubaclov also peered into the gloom, slowly making out the big man who led the horsemen, the woman riding at his side, and then, to his greater consternation, the man riding immediately behind him. ‘Taimanov?’ he muttered.
‘Are you just going to stand there?’ Dagmar demanded. ‘That man is...’
‘The Prince Bolugayevski,’ Colin said. ‘Despite your machinations, my dear.’ He gave Jennie a hand down.
‘You...’
‘I have a warrant for your arrest,’ Colin said. ‘And yours, Dubaclov. Vorontsov, I assume you were hoodwinked into this. You will have to answer charges, but for the time being I command you to withdraw your men and leave my property.’ Vorontsov looked at Dubaclov. ‘If you do not comply,’ Colin said, ‘immediately, Colonel Taimanov’s regiment of Okhrana will forcibly disarm you. That goes for your Cossacks as well, Dubaclov. Command them to lay down their weapons.’
Dubaclov drew a deep breath. There was no one in Russia, not even a Cossack, who was not terrified of the Okhrana. ‘You’ll not desert me, Constantine,’ Dagmar begged.
‘I have no choice, Princess.’
‘You wretched bastard!’
‘Lay down your arms,’ Dubaclov commanded. With a clatter, the Cossacks laid their rifles on the verandah floor.
Anna freed herself from Charles’ arms and went on to the verandah herself. ‘Well, big sister,’ she said. ‘How are the tables turned, yet again. You and I have much to discuss. But first...’ She stooped, picked up one of the discarded revolvers, and before anyone could grasp what she intended, levelled it at Dubaclov’s groin and fired. Dubaclov gave a scream of agony, and then fell to the floor, clutching at his blood-stained crotch. Anna fired a second time, into his chest.
For a moment no one moved, then Dagmar uttered one of her great shrieks, and leapt over the verandah rail to the ground beyond, ran past the men nearest her, and swung herself into the saddle of Colin’s horse, riding astride.
Everyone gaped at her in consternation as she kicked the horse and sent it galloping down the drive. Anna raised her gun again, but Charles caught her wrist. ‘After her!’ Taimanov shouted, and several of his men wheeled their mounts.
‘Wait!’ Colin snapped. The men checked. ‘She is my wife,’ Colin said. ‘I’ll trouble you for your horse, sergeant.’ The sergeant looked at Taimanov, received a nod, and dismounted. ‘No one is to follow,’ Colin said, and rode down the drive.
‘I will have a horse as well,’ Charles said, running down the steps.
‘His Highness commanded...’
‘But I am not subject to His Highness’s commands,’ Charles retorted, vaulting into an empty saddle.
‘Charles!’ Anna called. ‘Be careful!’
He gave her a wave as he followed the Prince down the drive, drawing rein at the gate, where Colin had also halted, listening.
‘What the devil...?’ Colin demanded.
‘She caused the death of my wife,’ Charles said. Not to mention what she has done to Anna.’
Colin shot him a glance, then pointed. ‘That way.’
Dagmar had taken the road towards the town rather than that to Poltava, on which she knew they would overtake her readily enough. Once past the town she would have all of Bolugayen on which to hide, although what she hoped to achieve, out in the snow and the freezing air, without food or weapons or even a heavy coat, was difficult to determine.
In any event, she had first to reach the town, and to do that she must pass through the mass of her people, trailing back to their homes. These parted for her, instinctively, as they heard her hoof-falls on the snow. Colin and Charles, topping the rise behind her, saw her gallop between them without a sideways glance. But then her horse stumbled in a pothole beneath the white blanket, and went down. Dagmar came out of the saddle on her feet, still holding the reins, and turned with an exclamation of anger, tugging at the bridle. The horse did not respond, and now she was surrounded by people. ‘Help me!’ she shouted.
‘It’s the Princess,’ someone said. There was a moment of silence, then a great moan rose from the people, and there were more and more of them now, hurrying to swell the crowd around her.
Charles would have urged his horse forward, and Colin reached across to grasp his bridle. ‘By Christ, man,’ Charles said. ‘They hate her.’
‘They have hated her for a long time,’ Colin said.
Charles stared at him in consternation, then looked along the road. ‘Bastards!’ Dagmar was shouting, and now she swung her riding whip. The crowd around her moved back, like a molten body, and then moved forward again. ‘Bastards!’ Dagmar screamed again. ‘Let me pass!’ There was another moan, and the people closed around
her. Again Charles would have urged his horse forward, but Colin’s hand remained fast on his rein.
‘My God, man,’ Charles shouted. ‘She is your wife!’
‘She is a devil from hell,’ Colin said. ‘And we cannot help her now, anyway.’
Charles gazed into the darkness. He heard Dagmar scream, again and again and again. But then she fell silent, carried off to whatever fate the people she had terrorised for so long had in mind for her. He had to cough, to clear his throat of saliva. ‘What will you do?’ he asked.
Prince Bolugayevski wheeled his horse. ‘Reverse her destruction, if I can.’
*
‘A tragic business,’ the Tsar said. ‘A princess, torn to pieces by a mob...and such a beautiful woman. My God, my blood runs cold at the thought of it. And you were unable to discover even the ringleaders, Prince?’
‘Would you have had me execute every man in Bolugayen, sire? Every child and every dog? The priest?’
‘You are sure they were not inspired by the Will of the People? Vorontsov has indicated that it was their doing, in his report.’
‘I do not believe it was a conspiracy, at least on the part of the people of Bolugayen, sire,’ Colin said carefully.
‘And yet, they must have hated her, so much. As they hate me, Prince.’
‘I am sure that is not so, sire. They wish to love you. But...’
‘Say it.’
‘They still feel there is much injustice. That a woman like my wife, or the police, can do so much harm in such a short space of time.’
‘How may I rule without the authority of my boyars, of my police? What would they have me do?’
Colin took a deep breath. ‘Perhaps, if it were possible to give the people, some of the people, the tzemtsvo, for instance, some semblance of power...’
‘A parliament, you mean, as you have in England?’
‘Well...some form of assembly, of representation, so that they could make their views known...’
‘Hm. Something will have to be done. I mean, Madame Cromb...that really is tragic.’ Alexander raised his head. ‘You say this American fellow is marrying her sister?’
‘I think he is being very gallant, sire. You will understand, that after what my sister-in-law had to suffer at the hands of my wife, she no longer felt it practical to remain on Bolugayen.’
‘Still, a Russian countess, off to a place like America...and what of you, Prince? Your wife dead...Of course, I suppose she would have faced the death penalty anyway. Like Dubaclov. But really, to be shot in...well...’
‘As you have said, my sister-in-law merely anticipated the death sentence, Your Majesty. You have the report of what she suffered at that man’s hands.’
‘Yes. And as she is leaving the country anyway...what of your Jewish people?’
‘I intend to rebuild that community, sire, with the aid of Dr Fine and his son and Mr Cohen. And this time guarantee their safety.’
‘You will do that, Prince? But your entire family is destroyed.’
‘Not so, sire. I still have my sons and my daughter. And, with your permission, I would like to marry again.’
The Tsar raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you require my permission to marry, Prince?’
‘The lady is, or was, shall I say, sire, of some importance to each of us.’
Alexander gazed at him, for several seconds, then laughed. ‘By God! You swore she had never been your mistress.’
‘She never was my mistress, Your Majesty, until after you had discarded her. Now I would make her my wife. With your permission.’
‘You have it, by God. You have it. Take her, Prince.’ He winked. ‘I wonder what Vorontsov will make of that?’
*
Charles was nervous. As Anna could tell. ‘I shall be a good wife to you,’ she promised, as they stood at the rail of the ship, Charles’ ship, watching the rooftops of Sevastopol fall astern.
‘I want you to know that I understand what a turnabout it will be, from being mistress of Bolugayen to plain Mrs Charles Cromb,’ he said.
She smiled. ‘You promised I could break a champagne glass every day.’
‘And so you shall. But...’
‘No bathing naked in rivers, and no fucking whoever takes my fancy, and no shooting men in the balls. I shall be content, sir, to obey your every wish.’
He could never tell when she was mocking him. He held her hands. ‘And have you no regrets? The boys? Colin? Bolugayen?’
She took them in reverse order. ‘Bolugayen is a place of horror, for me, now. Colin? We both wanted things, desperately, and we could both only achieve what we wanted by acting in total unison. He has what he truly wanted, now. In every way. Jennie will make him a much better wife than I ever could, simply because she is a much better person than I could ever be.’ She looked up at him. ‘Does that frighten you?’
‘It excites me. And the third?’
‘I wanted Colin to give me a son. He did not manage to. But you will, I know.’
He hugged her. ‘He will only be plain Charles Cromb junior. Not the Prince, or the Count, Bolugayevski.’
‘Will he not be the happier for that?’ she asked.
‘Besides, I am sure he will meet his cousins, one day. Now let us go below and see how Silas and Anatole are getting on.’
EPILOGUE
Catherina Dolgoruka remained Tsar Alexander’s mistress for the rest of his life; when, in 1880, the Tsarina died, Alexander married her in a secret ceremony.
Two years later, influenced by the more liberal of his boyars, the Tsar gave permission for a constituent assembly for all the Russians. On the same day, 13 March 1882, he was assassinated by a bomb tossed into his lap as he drove through the streets of St Petersburg. The Will of the People claimed responsibility.
When the Tsar’s personal effects were sorted, there were found a huge collection of female nudes, drawn by himself.
If you enjoyed reading The Seeds of Power, you might be interested in The Regiment by Christopher Nicole, also published by Endeavour Press.
Extract from The Regiment by Christopher Nicole
Prologue – May, 1983
‘You’ll be for the regimental dinner,’ remarked the doorman at the Savoy Hotel, holding his umbrella above the young man as he got out of his taxi; the May evening, still light, was obscured by the persistent London drizzle. Hastily the new arrival was escorted into the warm comfort of the lobby, where he stood for a moment, water dripping from his dark blue overcoat and from the burnished helmet he carried under his arm. The elegantly dressed men and women moving to and fro before him paid little attention as he removed his greatcoat and revealed the sky-blue shell jacket, dark blue breeches, high polished black boots, lacking spurs, and the cavalry sabre hanging at his side. If he appeared as a relic from a long-forgotten imperial past, the hotel guests and staff had already seen too many exactly like him this evening.
One of the under-managers was waiting for him. ‘It’s down the stairs and on the left, sir,’ he explained confidentially.
‘Thank you.’ The second lieutenant crossed the floor, disturbingly aware of the noise his boots were making, and descended the stairs. He breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the sergeant-major, also wearing full dress uniform, standing before one of the doors. ‘Lieutenant Wilson,’ he murmured diffidently.
The sergeant-major came to attention. ‘Lieutenant Wilson, sir,’ he repeated, as if he did not already know the newcomer by sight. ‘Colonel Mackinder is waiting, sir.’
‘The taxi was late,’ Lieutenant Wilson explained, pausing as he stepped inside. The large room was festooned with bunting, dominated by the huge light blue regimental flag, but surrounded by others, ensigns and standards representing the battle honours won by the Royal Western Dragoons during their remarkable history. Sedgemoor—the regiment had been raised by Sir William Lord of Taunton in 1683 just to oppose Monmouth’s rebellion—and Blenheim, Minden and Busaco, Salamanca and Vittoria, Waterloo and Chilianwalah, Kabul and th
e Modder River, Le Cateau and the Somme, Dunkirk and El Alamein, the list was endless. Beneath the flags, the long tables sagged under the weight of the regimental silver; there were four tables, a top and three arms stretching away from it, with the centre arm slightly longer than the others. Along the near wall there ran another long table, on which all the helmets of the diners were arrayed.
The room was also filled with officers, past and present, from youthful second lieutenants like Wilson himself, more at home inside a tank than on the back of a horse, to active captains and retired majors, all wearing the unique sky-blue jacket—a reminder of the Peninsular War, when the original red tunics wore out. No replacements were available, so the then lieutenant-colonel had obtained permission from the Duke of Wellington to clothe his men out of his own pocket; the only material obtainable in sufficient quantity was sky-blue. Already known as ‘Lord’s Own’, from the name of their founder, the nickname had promptly been changed to ‘Heaven’s Own’ by the rest of the army, and had been worn with distinction and pride ever since.
‘Wilson! Thank God you’ve arrived. The old man is expected at any moment.’
Lieutenant Wilson faced his commanding officer, Lieutenant-Colonel Ian Mackinder, a tall, powerfully built man with clipped features and piercing blue eyes, who, Wilson had already discovered, was not quite so fierce as he sometimes appeared; but he was looking fierce enough this evening. ‘The taxi was late, sir,’ he explained.
‘You know what you have to do?’ Mackinder inquired, ignoring the stammered excuse.
‘I think so, sir.’
‘Think so? Damn it, boy, you have to know it. Come with me.’
Other officers stepped aside as the colonel led the junior lieutenant through their ranks to the huge painting which hung immediately behind the top table; some looked sympathetic, some looked amused; most had had to undergo this ordeal early in their own careers, when they had first joined the regiment.
‘Now,’ Colonel Mackinder said. ‘Tell me about that picture.’
The Seeds of Power Page 32