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

by Linda Lafferty

  Caulaincourt drew a breath recalling the last formal dinner at the Winter Palace, before he was recalled to Paris.

  “Our spies report that Tsar Alexander knows our soldiers are brave and our Grand Armée strong. But he is confident that Russia’s winters will win the war. He says we cannot afford to cross his borders into the vast lands that are Russia, so far from Paris. Nor can we stay and fight his people for years.”

  “For years!” roared Napoleon. “Fool! We shall defeat Alexander in a matter of weeks, a battle or two. Our forces far outnumber his and are better trained. We will crush him!”

  “But Your Majesty and his generals don’t know the Russian countryside.”

  “You are mistaken, Caulaincourt,” said Napoleon. “How could you so underestimate your emperor? Let me show you.”

  He opened a wooden coffer and withdrew a scroll. With a devilish smile he spread out a map of the whole of western Russia, clear to the border of the Ural Mountains. Names of even the tiniest villages were written in French, transcribed from Russian.

  “Have you ever seen such a detailed map?” said Napoleon, rubbing his hands together. “I’ve had a team of spies working for over a year on this.”

  Caulaincourt blinked down on the magnificent carte.

  “Not that we will ever use it, except for the westernmost fringes,” said Napoleon. “We will defeat Alexander’s army just as we did at Friedland and Austerlitz. I have no intention of entering into the damned Russian interior. We will finish off Alexander and have him suing for peace soon enough. Right here.”

  Napoleon thrust his thumb down on the blue line of the Niemen River, at the border of the old Lithuanian lands, sixty miles from Vilna.

  “The beginning and the end of this war will be right here.”

  “I beg you, Your Majesty! War with Russia would be a catastrophe.”

  “Ça suffit! Enough, you are dismissed, Monsieur Caulaincourt.”

  The staccato click of boots echoed through the halls of the Tuileries Palace as the generals answered Napoleon’s summons. General Ney looked beyond the windows at the falling snow silently blanketing the gardens.

  “Surely Napoleon would not order us all to report to him at once if he did not intend war,” said General Eugene to Ney. “But how can we move an army against Russia in the winter!”

  General Ney gave a curt nod.

  “The blight on wheat triggers food riots in Normandy,” said Davout. “How will we fill a soldier’s belly without bread?”

  The three generals were careful not to let General Murat, Napoleon’s brother-in-law and newly crowned king of Naples, overhear their conversation. Any doubts or criticism of the emperor’s plan could be considered treason.

  Together, the four generals entered Napoleon’s study.

  “This Tsar Alexander is a duplicitous rascal!” fumed Napoleon. “I offer him my hand in alliance and he spits upon it, trading with England and others. He takes me for a fool!”

  The generals focused their eyes straight ahead, listening to the emperor rant. Clocks sounded the hour—tinkling, bonging, chiming down the long halls of the Tuileries Palace.

  “We shall endure no more from this Romanov. If it’s war he wants, war he shall have! Begin preparing for our campaign against Russia!”

  The generals bowed their heads in respect.

  “The Grand Armée will crush the Russian rabble and take Moscow. I cannot wait to see Alexander’s face when we turn twenty thousand Prussian soldiers and Austrian cannons against him! Then we shall take St. Petersburg.” Napoleon’s right hand dived under his waistcoat.

  “Eternal allies, indeed!”

  Chapter 43

  Dąbrowica, southern Poland

  March 1812

  Never have I been more proud than when I wore the imperial blue uniform of the Mariupol Hussars for the first and then was given command of my own squadron. I loved my comrades, my commanders, my platoon, my regiment. I wish I could say that my career in that glorious regiment carried on until I fell in battle.

  But that was not the case.

  As the storm of the Patriotic War of 1812 approached with its crash of thunder, I realized that I was not suited for the Hussars. Quite literally.

  I could not afford an orderly. Or another supply horse. More important, a Hussar’s uniform must be impeccable, requiring meticulous care and replacement when it is torn or badly soiled. The Tsar had bought my first uniform and I simply could not afford to purchase another.

  The truth is I mismanaged my money. And two thousand rubles for a new uniform would have been an impossible expense.

  I dared not write the Tsar for more money—Alexander was engaged in planning a war against Napoleon. I could not bother him for money when Russia’s fate hung in the balance.

  I transferred to the Lithuanian Uhlans Regiment and I relinquished my Hussar uniform for a simple blue kolet with red facings. I was a lancer once more.

  We were sent immediately to Dąbrowica, southeast of Warsaw. My regrets at leaving the Hussars dissolved as I saw the uhlans and their lances, heard men speaking Polish and Lithuanian, mixed among the Russian. The bright pennons waved atop the regiments’ lances, bringing back my memories of my first taste of freedom, when I joined the Polish uhlans.

  As luck would have it, I was assigned to serve under a colleague from the Mariupol Hussars, Captain Podjampolsky—the same rascal who had given me his frisky stallion who bucked me off.

  Podjampolsky leapt off his horse to embrace me.

  Then he stepped back to take a quick survey of my body, wrinkling his brow.

  “The Hussars did not feed you very well. You certainly haven’t grown much. And you have no beard at all!”

  I ducked my head in embarrassment that quickly ignited into fury.

  “Can you still hold a lance?” asked the captain.

  “I should think so!” I said, the heat rising from my collar.

  Don’t treat me like a child!

  The captain laughed. “Of course you can. Alexandrov, how good it is to see you again.”

  He clapped me on the back. My shoulders relaxed.

  “We will let you get your bearings,” said Podjampolsky. “We will be at war soon enough.”

  War! I was going back to the battlefield, as I was in those first years as an uhlan. I felt a thrill of reliving my past. No more drilling or endless cleaning of weapons, uniform, and quarters for inspection. We would meet Napoleon again in battle!

  “In the meantime, until we have our orders, the chief of the regiment, Count Plater—Stanislaw Manuzzi—and his wife, Countess Plater, host the most glorious parties. Dancing until four in the morning, magnificent breakfasts. Rest up, tonight you shall see.”

  Magnificent indeed! The Plater mansion was a three-story affair with a copper mansard roof, a white-columned entrance, and an enormous coat of arms over the doorway. The chandeliers were ablaze, the ballroom festooned with ivy garlands and white bows. Music filled the rooms, and women dressed in silk gowns sashayed through the great hall on the arms of dashing young men in uniform.

  The young Countess Manuzzi had come home to visit her parents, Count and Countess Plater. What a black-eyed beauty! She sent our uhlans into a frenzy of adoration. They danced, leapt about like goats, twirling their mustaches. Some doused themselves so thoroughly in scent that in the closed ballroom we could barely breathe. Others confessed they had washed themselves in milk in the bathhouse.

  Uhlan after uhlan bowed to the young countess, spurs jingling, waists cinched with sashes à la circassienne.

  All tried to win her heart but with no success.

  But when our regiment commander, Colonel Tutolmin, returned, it was the countess’s turn to fall in love. The dashing officer left her head spinning.

  The next few weeks the handsome couple were inseparable, as Countess Plater hosted evening after evening of entertainment for us all.

  To love an uhlan! It was a dangerous adventure for this young beauty, especially as N
apoleon approached Russia with the Grand Armée.

  One night, the music stopped abruptly. A hush and then a buzzing murmur filled the room. A knot of commanding officers congregated at the corner of the dance floor. Count Plater emerged from the tight knot of men and spoke to his wife and daughter.

  Then I heard the sound of a woman’s weeping.

  And the announcement was made: we move out in twenty-four hours!

  A tremendous cheer erupted. We pounded each other’s backs, embracing one another.

  Countess Manuzzi, inconsolable, bade farewell to her newfound love.

  He left her for another love, a deeper love: the love of battle.

  I listened to the countess’s sobs and thought how I would feel if a man I loved had left me behind to go to war.

  I would follow …

  I watched the tears slide down her face. To leave loved ones behind with the prospect of never seeing them ever again.

  Ever again!

  I was riveted to the spot where I stood.

  “Are you all right, Alexandrov?” said a voice.

  I turned to see Captain Podjampolsky. “We move out tomorrow at 20:00 hours. You should pack your kit and be ready. We will ride all night. Get some sleep now.”

  I managed to nod. Only then did I realize my cheeks were wet with tears.

  “Yes, sir.”

  I cast one last look at the grieving woman and exited the room.

  The saying goes, whenever Russian troops move out, every sort of foul weather travels with them. That blustery March, storms lanced us with pelting sleet and sharp crystals of snow. My face chapped so mightily it turned scarlet and began to bleed.

  Captain Podjampolsky had to deal with accounts and requisitioning for the march, which left me in charge of the squadron. I spent time reviewing the uhlans, seeing that all the sabers and lances were sharpened. I personally inspected the horses to see that there were no stone bruises or ill-shod mounts. I ran my hand over the horses’ backs, checking for aches and saddle sores.

  The men murmured to each other how attentive I was to the horses, how well prepared we would all be to meet the Grand Armée.

  “Napoleon! We’ll show him a lance in his fat French gut!”

  “I’ll spear him through like a Turkish brochette!”

  Such bravado. Foolish braggarts! A shiver overtook me. I had seen Napoleon’s Grand Armée and the destruction they could wreak.

  “Inspection!” I ordered. “Show me your kit!”

  I made them show me their greatcoats, to prove they were in good condition without need of mending. I did not share with them the story of how I almost died one cold rainy August, not from wounds in battle but for the want of a greatcoat.

  Nor did I mention how brave Napoleon’s Grand Armée was on the battlefield, how shrewd their general, who always sought to divide his enemy and destroy them one regiment at a time. Or how the French rained hellfire down from the high ground Napoleon always managed to capture.

  We are on our way northwest to Bielsk. Three days into the march, Captain Podjampolsky was called to ride ahead and meet with the generals for a few days. During his absence I was housed in a hamlet with a Polish priest and his gracious wife. She served me coffee, cream, and sugar wafers every morning while her husband had to make do with warm beer and cheese.

  As the priest sat across from me, glaring, his wife kept up a ridiculous banter.

  “You must be Polish!” she insisted. “Your manners are so noble. You speak with such a pleasant voice.”

  This insult to my Russian heritage annoyed me, even if I did have Polish blood.

  “Is it really your opinion that noble manners and good conversation are the exclusive property of Poles?”

  She laughed. “But there are other good graces you have that are Polish … or at least certainly not Russian!”

  I had to admit that I am half Ukrainian on my mother’s side. And yes, my father’s blood was part Swedish … and yes, Polish.

  It was clear she had no use for Russians. Now she turned her attention to Swedes!

  “You see—a Swede!” she said, clapping her hands. “I adore Swedes, their forthright character, their courage.”

  The priest glowered, a hateful look in his eye.

  Now I need to explain that, in that part of the world, for some inexplicable reason, the melted bits of lard served on a hot bowl of kasha are called swedes. And just then, the priest’s wife set a bowl of kasha in front of him—and the priest began howling, smacking the bits of fried lard in his buckwheat kasha.

  “I hate swedes!” he screamed, bits of lard flying about the room. “I hate swedes!”

  The bowl of kasha smashed against the log wall.

  “Oh my God!” gasped my hostess. “He has gone mad, completely mad!”

  I was relieved when Captain Podjampolsky returned home that day and we resumed our march. The war was sending all of us—even civilians—into the nether regions of madness.

  Our march to war began but lasted only until our supplies ran out and the captain was sent back to headquarters while we remained in a Lithuanian hamlet. It was a poor village and we officers had the vilest of quarters in a barn.

  Corporal Czerniawski, and the brothers Tornesi—Ivan and Cesar—were to become my closest friends in the months to come. We commanded our own squadrons, though Ivan Tornesi outranked us all. Together we would see the worst of the battles of the great Patriotic War.

  While waiting for Captain Podjampolsky to return from meetings with the generals, we officers whiled away the time reading after finishing our reviews of the troops and camp. Corporal Czerniawski read Racine while I read and reread my copy of Voltaire’s tales. Cesar Tornesi smoked his pipe incessantly, placing a plug of aloe atop the tobacco.

  “That’s the way the Turks do it,” he said. And since his father had participated in the Turkish Wars with General Kutuzov, we believed him.

  His older brother Ivan indulged him. Cesar was the baby of the family and Ivan was gentle with him no matter his boasting or antics. Young Cesar became our personal clown, dancing ballet for our amusement. His favorite was Ariadne on the island of Naxos.

  “You are the buffoon, aren’t you?” laughed his brother. “Ah, but we turn to you for entertainment in these troubled times, little brother.”

  My heart warmed to see the fraternal love between the two. What comfort to have a loved one on a march.

  After too many ballet performances, I threw aside my Voltaire, having read it for the hundredth time, and turned to reckoning the accounts. I realized that we did not have enough oats and forage for the horses to travel but fifty versts.

  I wrested Czerniawski from his Racine, Cesar from his pipe and visions of tutus.

  “We must see what supplies can be requisitioned for the horses,” I said.

  My two comrades pulled disgusted faces. They scowled at the windows, splattered with raindrops and dried leaves. Neither one of them wanted to venture out.

  “You heard Lieutenant Alexandrov,” affirmed Captain Tornesi. “He’s next in command. Get on your feet. That’s an order.”

  Reluctantly they walked out in the pouring rain. When they returned at the end of the day without hay or grain, I realized it would be my turn as soon as Captain Podjampolsky returned and I surrendered my temporary command.

  It was my luck that Podjampolsky returned the very next day. Czerniawski and Cesar Tornesi slapped me on the back, wishing me luck.

  “You’ll find forage, Alexandrov. Anyone would take pity on your baby face,” they joked.

  In the Russian army, officers could requisition oats with vouchers, payable at headquarters for money. At least in theory. But landowners knew it wasn’t that easy to get paid and they needed what little stores they had for their own estates.

  I went from one estate to another. The Poles had hidden their grain and negotiation was fruitless. I became more and more agitated realizing that Napoleon had already crossed the Niemen and that we were stuck in a
muddy village, unable to move because we had no forage for our horses.

  Wars are won and lost by such factors—without fit horses we would never defeat Napoleon.

  I pushed on further up the road.

  It was then I noticed the smoke. I should have been aware of it long before, but my preoccupation with finding fodder distracted me.

  Billowing black clouds lay ahead, a horizon of flames.

  I rode a verst more and came across a landowner of about sixty. He had a sad cast about him, his blue eyes blurred with tears.

  I asked him about the fires, but he didn’t answer me directly.

  “Come in lad,” he said, instead. “I will make you a cup of tea—the samovar is bubbling. Sit at the table with me.”

  I thanked him for his trouble, taking a seat at an elegant birchwood dining table. I ran my hand across the grain, admiring it.

  My host noticed me.

  “Poets say that a Russian’s heart is made of birch. There is no more noble tree.”

  “I have loved them,” I admitted. “Since I was a child.”

  He watched me, his head slightly cocked as if he were listening to a faint tune.

  “They are a soft wood at heart and burn fast,” he said.

  I thought this a curious remark because birch is actually quite hard but said nothing.

  “I know why you are here,” he said, his eyes lost again in sorrow. “My, you are young. My son’s age, I would reckon. You are here to find grain for your horses.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Your colleagues were here a few days before. I had rolling fields of oats, barley, and rye. Oh, you should see the rye in the summer. My son would ride through the fields on his stallion. You could barely see his cap.”

  I withdrew the vouchers from my pocket.

  “I will buy all the grain you can sell me.”

  He waved away the vouchers. “Useless,” he said. “My fields have been burned. Napoleon is coming. Our generals have ordered the crops destroyed rather than feed a marching French army as we retreat.”