The Girl Who Fought Napoleon: A Novel of the Russian Empire

by Linda Lafferty

  Something about what she said made me recall a dream I had a few nights earlier. I touched my fingers to my lips, trying to recall.

  “Nadya! Are you even listening?” said Olga, shaking me. “You look as if you are sleepwalking!”

  The dream flew from my mind. I slapped at her hands. “We Russians are known for such treachery too! I have heard that in Lithuania, the Russian armies raped those girls and their mothers. They stole. Even the Imperial Guards!”

  “No!” said Olga, pulling back her head like a viper ready to strike. “How dare you insult—”

  “And as far as pillage, my father said, it is because the Cossacks are not paid enough to eat or given forage for their horses. They are promised the spoils of battle, that is all they have as payment.”

  My three friends stared at me.

  “How dare you say such a thing about our country … our tsar!” sputtered Olga. “They must have provided for the Cossacks, for all their soldiers.”

  “I do not criticize the Tsar. But neither he nor his commanders nor any Russian in history has paid the Cossacks anything but a few token kopeks. The Cossacks depend on the spoils of war to feed their families.”

  My girlfriends had no answer to this. They knew I had been raised in the cavalry ranks.

  “There is one Cossack more dashing than the others,” ventured Veronika quietly. “Blond, with a fair complexion. He wears a blue tunic. His eyes are green as the summer grass.”

  “He has the most striking bearing,” said Raya. “He w-w-walks like a centaur, noble in his bearing.”

  “You must be mistaken. The Cossacks are all Mongols,” sniffed Olga. “Nobility! They are heathen barbarians. Stay away from them or they’ll burn your soul!”

  I stared at her, unable to speak. I had dreamt of a Cossack. Tall with green eyes. I was riding Alcides on Startsev Mountain …

  I was tired of my girlfriends’ company, their tedious gossip. The conversation was laced with ignorance. But how could they know anything beyond their noses? They had never left the town of Sarapul.

  I kept thinking of my saber and Alcides awaiting me.

  I kissed my friends good-bye and returned to my room.

  I can’t wait to be rid of this constant chatter! To hear the wind in the trees, the snort of my horse.

  I could not wait to be rid of them, free of society and its rules for women.

  I cut wide strips of linen to bind my breasts. Never being a particularly buxom girl, I could flatten my chest with little trouble.

  I could bring little with me so I had chosen carefully. In my chest were five fine embroidered handkerchiefs my Ukrainian grandmother had made me, a dowry present.

  Marriage! I will never marry, ever. What would marriage do but to bind me further into female slavery.

  I folded the dainty handkerchiefs carefully and put them into my small bundle.

  That night I knew I was saying a significant farewell to my parents—although they had no idea what I was about to do. At eleven o’clock in the evening I went upstairs to my mother.

  This may be the last time I ever see her.

  I kissed her hands and clasped them to my heart—something I had never done before. She was so surprised at my display of affection she kissed me on the forehead.

  “Go with God,” she said.

  Does she have a premonition I am leaving forever?

  I clutched her blessing to my heart and crossed the garden to my rooms. I was relegated to the ground floor of the garden house now—for our family had grown. My father, who had permanently tumbled from grace in my mother’s eyes, had his apartment on the second floor of the garden house. When he was home.

  What I could not fit into saddlebags was stuffed into a cloth satchel that could be rolled across the back of the saddle or slung across my back. I pulled the saber from its scabbard, studying it.

  Would I actually kill a man with this blade?

  When I heard footsteps outside, I started, nearly slicing my finger. I put the sword back into its scabbard and opened the door.

  “Papa!”

  “What is wrong with you, daughter? You look pale.”

  “I am fine, Father. Quite fine indeed.”

  “It is getting cold and damp. Why do you not have the servants heat your rooms?”

  Then he paused and gave me a stern look.

  “Why do you not order Efim to run Alcides on a lunge? There’s no getting near him. You haven’t ridden him for a long time, and you won’t permit anyone else to do it. He’s so restive. He rears up even in his stall. You must exercise him, Nadezhda. This is not good horsemanship.”

  I looked into my papa’s eyes. This was my last good-bye.

  “I will ride Alcides tomorrow. I promise, Papa.”

  “You seem melancholy, my friend. Good night, go to bed,” said Papa. He kissed my forehead. His eyes were soft and loving. He pulled me to his chest with warm arms, pressing me to his heart.

  I began to tremble. I stepped back from his embrace so he couldn’t feel me shaking. I grabbed his hands and kissed them.

  “See! Your lips are like river ice! You are chilled through,” he said.

  I laughed, kissing his hands again.

  “Then let me freeze your fingers with my kisses, dear Papa!”

  He snatched his hand away, pulling me back to his chest in a hug.

  “Spokoynoy nochi,” he said softly. Good night.

  He left and I listened to his boots strike each wooden step as he climbed to his apartments.

  I knelt to the ground, my tears falling where his boots had rested just moments before.

  How he will grieve when he realizes I am gone!

  Later, when all was quiet in the little house, I took out my scissors, opened its jaws, and captured a long lock of my hair between the sharp blades. I took a deep breath. There would be no turning back now. Hair spilt in swirls to the floor.

  I brushed the bits of hair from my shoulder and donned the Cossack uniform. I stared at myself in the mirror. I looked like a young man with light-brown hair, a somewhat swarthy complexion, and hazel eyes.

  No one would recognize me as a woman.

  I stretched my arms out to the icon above my hearth, the Mother of God, though I had never been particularly religious. “Bless me,” I asked. Then I closed the door of my family home, wondering if I would ever see it again.

  The moon was full, illuminating the forests and filling the lakes with liquid silver.

  Efim the stable boy met me at the edge of the forest on the road to Startsev Mountain. He had been easy to bribe. A serf had little chance of ever earning money. He had taken the coins eagerly. Now he stood, waiting, my beloved horse beside him. Alcides snorted, seeing me approach on foot.

  “He is restless,” said Efim. “He reared twice as I stood here waiting for you. You might get hurt.”

  “Then help me mount him quickly. I will gallop the vinegar out of him on the hill road. He will settle down quickly enough.”

  I dug in my cloth satchel. “Here’s the rest of the money I promised you. Now help me strap the bag behind the saddle.”

  He bowed and took the money. Then, as he tied the knots fastening the bag, he asked, “Is there … is there a message I should give your parents?”

  “Help me up, Efim.”

  “But what shall I say?”

  “Nothing, Efim. No message.”

  I reined Alcides around and took off at a gallop. Away from home.

  Chapter 17

  Mikhailovsky Castle, St. Petersburg

  November 1801

  Alexander reined his stallion to a halt at the green-watered moat surrounding Mikhailovsky Castle. He drew in a breath. He found the new castle, a medieval fortress, unsettling. The Moika and the Fontanka rivers flanked the castle, with two man-made canals connecting the rivers to form the perimeter moat.

  Impenetrable. Like my father.

  Everything about the emperor’s new residence reflected his father’s fears of assa
ssination or coup d’état. The original whimsical wooden structure that Peter the Great’s daughter Tsarina Elizabeth had treasured was razed to build Paul’s fortress. The new Mikhailovsky Castle was built around an octagonal courtyard where Emperor Paul could amass a small army in case of attack.

  Alexander spurred his stallion across the drawbridge. The horse’s hooves echoed on the wooden planks, making him prance nervously. Each hoof strike made him leap higher, his eyes ringed white. The grand duke sat deep in the saddle, holding his breath as they clattered off the drawbridge and into the castle courtyard.

  “Grand Duke, greetings,” called out Count Nikita Panin. Alexander remembered Panin from lively dinners where he had championed Russia’s alliance with England. Now the count had risen to become the emperor’s vice-chancellor of foreign affairs, despite his unabashed love for the English.

  As Alexander swung down from his horse, a stable boy caught hold of the reins.

  “Your horse shows good spirit,” said Panin jocularly. “I expect he has never seen a drawbridge before.”

  “You witnessed that, General Panin? I thought the brute would throw me into the water!”

  “You handled him well,” said Panin. Alexander noticed the approving gleam in the general’s eyes. The grand duke’s breast swelled with pride. So rarely did anyone admire Alexander’s horsemanship, especially on his father’s turf.

  “The emperor expects you in his apartments,” said Panin.

  “Thank you,” said Alexander, giving the hem of his uniform jacket a discreet tug. He brushed his sleeves and aligned his jacket cuffs.

  “I shall accompany you,” said the general. “Shall we go?”

  Alexander nodded curtly. His attention was focused on the bronze equestrian statue of Peter the Great. The original inscription, “Petro Primo Catherina Secunda,” “Peter I Catherine II,” was gone. A new marble pedestal read “Like Great Grandfather, the Great Grandson.”

  As if Papa could ever scratch out his mother’s mark on Russia and replace it with his own!

  Alexander felt the general’s eyes studying him, as palpable as a thin veil tossed over his skin.

  At last, Panin said, “Please, Grand Duke. This way. The emperor awaits.”

  “Ah! You have arrived,” said a voice from the top of the spiral stairs. “Come in, Alexander. Come in.”

  “What do you think of my new castle, Alexander?” said the emperor as his son entered the private apartments. “I have only just occupied my rooms this month.”

  Alexander glanced about his father’s apartment, quite small in comparison with any other royal suite. The gold moldings contrasted with the stark white of the walls. A door that overlooked the Romanov private chapel of St. Michael’s stood ajar, offering a glimpse of the golden iconostasis and, above that, a fresco of St. Michael hovering on the vaulted ceiling.

  “Is it not splendid?” said the emperor. “Look at the chapel. We shall worship there on Sundays together in privacy.” Then he waved a hand toward the window. “And look how the waters sparkle from the moat—much more light than the Winter Palace, that bloated corpse.”

  Alexander smiled.

  He is in a good humor, grace be to God! If only it could last.

  “You have created an elegant palace,” he said. “Encased by a formidable fortress. I do not know that I have ever crossed a true drawbridge. My stallion was quite nervous.”

  Paul puckered his forehead, scowling at his son.

  And the storm clouds gather in an instant. Can I never say anything right?

  “What warhorse cannot cross a drawbridge, or what cavalryman cannot ride him without hesitation?” snapped the Tsar. “And it is not a fortress, although given the reports of treason that abound, I have every right to be concerned.”

  “What reports are those, Father?” asked Alexander. “Who has spoken of plots?”

  “I am not such a fool to disclose those who tell me what others would keep hidden!” his father snapped. “Mikhailovsky Castle will serve its intended purpose. I have the safety and seclusion I need to confer with my most intimate advisors.” Paul gestured to the three military officers who had been standing apart from the father and son: General Panin, Count Alexei Arakcheyev, an old acquaintance from Alexander’s childhood days at Gatchina, and Count Pyotr Pahlen, governor-general of St. Petersburg.

  “These three,” the emperor continued, his eyes boring into his son.

  Alexander’s skin prickled under his father’s scrutiny. He was keenly aware that General Panin had moved and was now standing just behind him, as if allying himself with the young grand duke.

  “Yes, my dear son,” said Paul, his mouth twitching. “There are plots on my life. Some have even suggested that you are suspect. They suggest that you, my own son, would wish to see me dead and yourself on the throne of Russia.”

  “Papa!” said Alexander. “I wish no such thing, I swear it! Who are the traitors who accuse me—”

  “Ha!” said Paul, wrinkling his nose if he smelt something foul. “As the Englishman says, ‘Thou dost protest too much,’ Alexander. Did you and my mother not plot? Conveniently blotting me out of my nation’s future?”

  “I—”

  “I know all about it. A manifesto drawn up in September 1796, when you were nineteen. Do not pretend you do not know, Alexander. You have never learned to lie persuasively.”

  “Yes, I knew of such a document, Your Highness,” said Alexander, lifting his chin in defiance. “It was the Empress Catherine’s proposal, not mine. I have never wanted to usurp your throne. Never!”

  The Tsar’s eyes narrowed. His mouth tightened.

  “Swear an oath to me, Alexander. Get on your knees and swear by Archangel Michael!”

  Paul pointed to the open door, looking down onto his private chapel.

  Alexander dropped to his knees, facing the image of St. Michael painted on the vaulted ceiling.

  “I swear my allegiance to you, my father, Tsar Paul! I swear it!” He bowed his head and repeated, “I swear my allegiance to our most gracious Tsar Paul, ruler of all the Russias!” He crossed himself according to the Orthodox tradition.

  Will he never have faith in me?

  Paul looked his son up and down, as Alexander rose to his feet.

  “No,” he said, closing the door to the chapel. “No, Alexander. You haven’t the guts to be an emperor. A tsar must make impossible decisions quickly and decisively. Fearlessly, Alexander! Your sail would flap in the wind, as you stood weighing this result against the other until the beating canvas was torn by the gales.”

  Alexander’s face burned. He ventured a glance at the three officers. All three lowered their eyes in embarrassment at the browbeating of the young tsarevitch.

  And the Tsar was not yet done.

  “Your blood is too thin, Alexander, your conscience too brittle to command this mighty empire.” Paul snorted a derisive laugh. “Your younger brother Nicholas should wear the Russian crown. Now there is a military man in the making!”

  Alexander flinched under the comparison.

  Nicholas is a child! Four years old! Given to tantrums, breaking toys, and striking out at anyone who defies him. Is this the son my father prefers?

  Alexander said nothing.

  “There are changes in the wind, Alexander,” said the Tsar, taking a deep breath. “I have ordered the British ambassador Lord Whitworth home with his tail between his legs.”

  Alexander sucked in his breath, aghast.

  “Lord Whitmore sent back to London? But the British have been our allies, our international trade depends on—”

  The Tsar cut him off with a gesture. “The British are no longer our friends. We will sign a pact with Napoleon. Then we shall meet the British, defeat them, and then on to Constantinople. Napoleon will rule the West and Russia the East. Russia and France! There will be no defeating us.”

  “Napoleon? But—But what of our allies?”

  “The devil take them! We shall rule the East.”
>
  Alexander heard boots shuffle and sensed Panin’s uneasiness just behind him.

  Panin worked hard to establish diplomacy with England. What can he possibly think of my father’s ravings?

  “You are dismissed, Alexander,” said the Tsar, with a flap of his hand.

  Alexander bowed to his father. General Pahlen escorted him out the door.

  “We must talk, Grand Duke,” whispered the general.

  Chapter 18

  Sarapul, Russia

  September 1806

  I gave Alcides his head and we galloped in the moonlight toward the Cossack camp. He needed to expend his restless energy from not being ridden—and I needed to put my home and my parents behind as quickly as I could. There was no time for second thoughts, no time for turning back. The autumn wind stung my face as we raced through the dark.

  Freedom! A precious gift from heaven.

  The road to the Cossack camp led through a dense forest. I slowed Alcides to a walk as we entered the dark silence of the woods. A frigid north wind began to blow and I tucked my chin under the rough wool of my tunic. My fleece hat was pulled down so low I could barely see where we were going. But Alcides was sure-footed and he followed the road. Hours passed. At last, at dawn, he smelled the horses of the encampment and broke into a trot.

  In a few minutes, I could smell the toasted warmth of kasha steaming in kettles over the fire. The colonel and officers were gathered in front of the headquarters tent, eating the hot porridge. They were talking intently when I rode up.

  Silence fell as they looked up at me. They took in the colors of my Cossack uniform, not blue like that of the Don Cossacks, but the red of the Zaporozhian, from the steppes of the Ukraine, my mother’s homeland.

  “What’s your regiment?” were the first words I heard.

  I answered the colonel in the deepest voice I could muster.

  “I do not have the honor of belonging to any regiment, Colonel.”

  The men’s eyes grew wide and suspicious. I felt them inspecting me, my uniform, my saddle, and especially Alcides.

  “I don’t understand you. You are not enrolled anywhere?”