But the French were desperate. Cannonball by cannonball we disarmed them, galloping our horses across the open field as they fired in vain.
After weeks of dodging the damned cannonballs—which our uhlans began to think of as a game—Modlin was captured. Then we were off to Bohemia, continuing west in support of the Tsar as he pursued Napoleon.
We spent the end of autumn on patrol in the Bohemian mountains. I shall never forget looking down from a high peak of the Harz Range, watching our Russian squadrons file down the narrow road, a misty sinuous strip through the brilliant red-and golden-leaved trees of autumn.
Then, with the first edge of winter, we descended into the Bohemian capital.
Prague. Oh what joy! I marveled at the buildings, the perfect squares, pastel colors, and dollhouse-like charm of this exquisite city: the tall buildings painted in pastels lined up cheek-to-cheek like the painted toys. Our heads swung around to take in the beauty of this Bohemian treasure with its candy-colored architecture and pristine roads. How our horses’ shoes rang out proudly on the cobblestone streets, throwing sparks!
The weather turned fiercely cold. The Bohemians said our Russian weather had followed us—and had they known we were to be stationed there, they would have laid in more peat.
We feasted on succulent roast goose and red cabbage, spiced with copious quantities of caraway, washed down with the finest dark ales I’d ever tasted—though I was not much of a drinker.
I’ve rarely loved a city as much as Prague. The city of Prague and countryside of the Ukraine reminded me of peace, of fine civilization without war. Would we ever find such elusive peace again?
Our sojourn there was too brief, before we, along with the rest of Bennigsen’s army, were ordered on the march again. We headed north and west to contain the French general Davout outside Hamburg.
Chapter 57
Sommepy, France
March 1814
On the thirteenth anniversary of his father’s murder, Alexander attended a memorial mass, an occasion he dreaded each year. Before the service, the Tsar calmed himself by holding Elizabeth’s Bible to his heart.
Oh, my Elise! Where are you when I need your counsel?
He pressed the Bible close, as if branding his soul.
An aide knocked at the door. “Your Majesty, forgive me. It is time for the service.”
Reluctantly, Alexander left the Bible behind and walked to the chapel.
The words of the Mass tumbled, predictable and rote, from the priest’s mouth. But Alexander, still thinking of Elizabeth’s Bible, couldn’t help but be caught up in the ritual that ran through his life from childhood to this very moment.
With the chanting of the priest resonating in the Tsar’s chest, he wept as the brutal memories of that terrible night in Mikhailovsky Palace—the night Alexander became the reluctant tsar of all the Russias—slapped him in waves.
The Tsar shivered like a child as he stood praying.
My father, my beloved father. Please forgive me. Guide me to do the right thing. Give me the strength I need to defeat Napoleon.
He prayed as he had never prayed before.
I have no enemy in France but him. I seek no revenge. But I pray, God our Lord, guide me. If I must fight to save Europe, I shall!
I will sleep in Paris, I swear it!
“I will speak with Field Marshal von Diebitsch!” Alexander ordered as he dismissed the Austrians who had deserted Napoleon but were now trying to persuade the Tsar to abandon his pursuit of the French forces. Napoleon had managed a series of victories in pitched battles, and many allies were urging Alexander to declare victory and return to Russia.
“I will have no more talk of falling back,” Alexander declared. “We will press on to Paris and rout Napoleon in his den.”
Hans Karl von Diebitsch was Prussian born but loyal to Russia and Tsar Alexander. He fought alongside the Russians and had been wounded in the Battle of Austerlitz. He was as experienced and brave as any officer Alexander knew, now that Kutuzov was dead.
“Well?” Alexander asked the general. “Am I mad to ignore the Austrians?”
“If Your Majesty wishes to reestablish the Bourbons on their throne, the best thing to do is to march on Paris.”
“To hell with the Bourbons!” said Alexander. “It is a question of Napoleon!”
General Karl Wilhelm von Toll, who had been standing by eager to speak, was unable to contain himself any longer. “We must march upon Paris,” he interjected. “But we must be wary. We should have ten thousand cavalry keep pursuing Napoleon south of Paris. We will lure him into engagement to disguise our intentions. Then the rest of the army will pour into Paris before he has a chance to double back.”
“Exactly, Toll!” said Alexander. “Brilliant! We shall march on Paris but employ your ruse.”
That night Alexander was awash with doubt. He thought of Kutuzov.
Alexander opened the Bible to the book of Ecclesiastes. He read, moving his lips silently: “A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up.”
He clasped the Bible close to his heart. “Please O Lord, guide me. I have been conceited, haughty, and unwilling to listen to wise counsel throughout the years. I swear I shall dedicate myself to you in whatever is left of my life. I ask you tonight, Lord. Be with me.”
God be with me. Be with us. Be Russian!
The Russian cavalry unit commanded by General von Wintzingerode rode hard against Napoleon’s forces, drawing them away from Paris. The French met the Russians and engaged.
Instead of artillery, the ring of swords filled the battlefield, hard metal against hard metal. Not a single rifle was shot. Cavalry fought against cavalry.
Napoleon looked down from the heights upon the battlefield. A general emerged from the battle, followed by a scout with a lathered horse.
“Mon empereur!” gasped the rider. “The Russians have moved their main armies to the outskirts of Paris! We have been lured away by a single cavalry unit!”
Napoleon’s eyes snapped wide open. “What?” It wasn’t really a question, though. The brilliant strategist already understood exactly what had happened.
All eyes riveted on him. His face transformed to an emotion akin to admiration. “A beautiful chess move! I should never have thought them capable of it!”
He shook his head, as if to clear it. “We move north immediately!” he snapped, although he knew it was already too late.
Alexander’s great uncle Colonel Michael Orlov, the illegitimate son of Catherine the Great, was entrusted to carry a plan for peace to Paris. He was ordered to negotiate with French Marshal Auguste Marmont and Napoleon’s former foreign minister Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand and ignore Napoleon’s brother Joseph, who was officially in charge of the defense of the capital.
“Tell them we have no quarrel with the French people,” said Alexander. “I offer peace and tranquility to France, to Europe. If the French troops surrender, I offer them the right to leave the capital. And I will give my word that our troops will be only peacekeepers. We will not allow looting or ill conduct. The Parisians shall be rid of Napoleon and we will inflict no harm.”
Orlov took a sheaf of papers that Alexander had prepared and rode toward Paris.
While Orlov negotiated with Marmont, the battle raged outside Paris.
“You are in a precarious position,” said Colonel Orlov. “General Wellington has forced the French from Spain. All Europe now surrounds you—foremost Tsar Alexander Romanov of Russia.”
Marmont sniffed.
“And if we do not accept your terms?”
“Alexander and his coalition will be forced to ride through Paris with no regard to your people, your architecture, your art,” said Colonel Orlov, leveling his eyes at Marmont. “Paris will be at the mercy of the Cossacks and the rest of the allied soldiers who have suffered greatly under the war Napoleon imposed upon them. Paris could suffer the same fate as our beloved Moscow—”
“Co
ssacks!” said Marmont. “Burn and sack Paris?”
Orlov steadied his steel-blue eyes at the Frenchman.
As you French did Moscow.
“It is certainly not the wish of Tsar Alexander Romanov. Our great tsar reveres Paris. If you surrender peacefully he guarantees the welfare of the French nation. Our emperor has only one enemy in France. Napoleon Bonaparte.”
Napoleon and the remnants of the Grand Armée raced to Paris.
“How could I have underestimated Alexander!” said Napoleon to Caulaincourt. “He was so inept at Austerlitz, helpless at Tilsit. Could this possibly that same callow, half-deaf bungler?”
Caulaincourt, who had long admired the Tsar, did not answer. King Joseph, Napoleon’s brother, burst into the tent.
“Your Majesty,” said Joseph. “There are reports that Tsar Alexander himself is embedded in the horse troops.”
“The Tsar? Engaged in battle?”
“His presence has aroused the Russians. Their cavalry fight like madmen.”
“What the devil is an emperor—”
A cannon boomed, snatching the rest of Napoleon’s words.
Alexander watched from the vantage point of Buttes-Chaumont. From the heights he waited to see who emerged the victor from the mingling colors of uniforms scaling and descending the hills of Montmartre. It was impossible to determine who was winning.
The Tsar returned to his tent to read his ever-present Bible.
“God, I promise you everything I have. I have been foolish, inconstant, and arrogant. I am your humble servant in destiny.”
The next day at dawn Colonel Orlov entered Alexander’s room. The Tsar was still in bed.
“What news do you bring?”
Orlov bowed. “I bring you the capitulation of Paris, my Tsar.”
Chapter 58
Paris
March 1814
Alexander rode into Paris in the blue uniform of the Chevalier Guard. The sun reflected off his gold epaulets, his blue cordon of the Order of St. Andrew stretched diagonally across his chest.
Flanked by King Frederick of Prussia and the Austrian general Schwartzenberg, Alexander sat tall on his light-gray thoroughbred, Eclipse, a gift from Napoleon in earlier days. His expression carefully balanced the pride and satisfaction of victory with his sorrow at the death and destruction. The allies paraded through the streets of Paris and marched beneath the yet unfinished Arc de Triomphe, ordered by Napoleon to honor his victory at Austerlitz.
Cheering Parisians, many thin and hollow eyed from the hardships of war, thronged the streets, climbing into trees, hanging out of windows. The women waved white handkerchiefs.
“Long live Alexander!” shouted a voice, then another and another.
“I do not come as an enemy,” said the Tsar. “I come to bring you peace and commerce!”
“We’ve been waiting for you for a long time!” shouted a man in a tattered coat.
“If I didn’t come sooner, it is the bravery of your French troops that is to blame.”
The crowd erupted in cheers.
A group of nationalists tried to agitate for the Bourbon royal family.
“Long live the Bourbons!” shouted one loyalist. “The rightful heirs to France!”
A scuffle broke out as a French citizen pushed the loyalist aside.
“Merde!” shouted the citizen, waving his emaciated arms. “The Bourbons fled. It is a Russian who has freed us.”
“Long live Alexander!” came a call that reverberated down the Champs-Élysées.
Alexander thought, “Paris is mine.” Then he stopped himself. “No,” he thought. “Not mine. Paris belongs to the world—and foremost to the French. They alone should determine its future. Napoleon is defeated. I have achieved my goal.”
A twelve-year-old boy crept up to a campfire on the Champs-Élysées. He had seen these strange men, in loose fitting pants and tunics, their tanned faces all bone and sinew. He gawked at them as the other Parisians did as they rode bolt upright in huge saddles down the boulevard.
Their strange mutterings and fierce bearing had entranced him, for this young boy Jules Verne had an insatiable thirst for adventure.
The horses were tethered to the trees, gnawing at the bark. The smell of animal fat, horse manure, and soured milk emanated from the campsite. Wet laundry flapped from the railings of the palaces that lined the Champs-Elysées.
Jules was not alone. He could see in the firelight whole families who had crept near the Cossack camp to watch these wild men who slept in their saddles, smoked pipes, and played cards.
Another boy touched Jules’s elbow, making him jump.
“Better than a circus!”
“Shhh!” said Jules.
“They won’t hurt us. I’ve thrown a rock at ’em and they laughed. Threw it right back at me, hitting me right here on the shoulder,” he said, touching the spot. “They laughed again really hard. No harm done.”
“You are stupid but lucky,” said Jules, watching the Cossacks. “I heard they are under strict orders to behave. Otherwise they would have speared you with one of their lances. Or cut off your ears faster than a Les Halles butcher.”
The boy pulled at his earlobe, thinking.
“They are fierce looking,” he said, nodding.
“That’s what it took to defeat Napoleon,” said Jules, his eyes still riveted on the men. “Those Russians and their tsar.”
Chapter 59
Hamburg
May 1814
While our tsar was completing his glorious conquest of Paris, we were still stuck outside Hamburg, battling the stubborn General Davout. Despite the news of Napoleon’s surrender, Davout held on to Hamburg in the name of the Bourbon king Louis XVIII until late May.
Despite the defeat of Napoleon, which allowed the Bourbons to regain the throne they had lost during the Revolution, Louis XVIII did not want to cede an acre of land the Corsican had conquered.
I thought General Davout was a blockhead but a brave soldier nonetheless. At last he capitulated and rode away under the protection of the Tsar’s Imperial Guards.
The Germans were jubilant, opening their houses to us. Families brought out their good silver and dishes, sharing all the food and drink they could offer us. We were offered soft beds—with clean bedding—to sleep in.
A family—not wealthy, but fine-mannered peasants—took me in, along with other officers. They served us as if we were royalty.
“Our king has ordered us to treat Russians well,” the patriarch told me. “Everything we have is yours to share. If it weren’t for the Tsar’s armies, we’d all be speaking French now!”
What fine food they served us! Succulent pork with stewed apples, the finest dark rye bread I’d ever tasted. Dry white wine and plenty of coffee with cream. Our meals were served on china dishes with silver spoons and saltcellars, fine crystal goblets. The tables were spread with delicate embroidered tablecloths, fit for a king. The Germans could not do enough for us after we liberated them of the tyrant Napoleon.
Our troops were billeted in Holstein, Prussia. We Russians honored Holstein as the homeland of Catherine the Great, grandmother of our magnificent Tsar Alexander. As I walked the peaceful land, I thought of the bravery of our emperor, taking Paris. Now he was in Vienna, orchestrating talks to settle an enduring peace for all Europe.
The “Holy Alliance” he called it. I marveled at the thought of all the nations of Europe coming together to work for peace. Surely our tsar was the first to conceive such a brilliant notion!
Did the other nations realize the deep sacrifices Russia made to put an end to Napoleon’s tyranny? Would they teach their children and future generations of the battles of Smolensk, Borodino, Berezina, and the final fierce battle at Leipzig, the largest confrontation ever fought on European soil? Will the pages of history books be filled with images of the burning of Moscow or the glorious ride through the Arc de Triomphe of Tsar Alexander?
What sacrifices Russia has made to defend all of Euro
pe! Russia defeated Napoleon. It is an achievement that should never be forgotten.
And yet, I wonder: Will our sacrifices—my comrades fallen in battle, my horse torn to pieces by a cannonball, those deaths of hundreds of thousands of Russian souls—will they be remembered?
I wonder.
Part 6
Can Wounds Ever Heal?
Chapter 60
Island of Elba
September 1814
Napoleon Bonaparte looked down at the smooth stones two meters under the salt water of Portoferraio. The sea surrounding the island of Elba was so crystal clear, it resembled water from a mountain lake.
An Austrian guard stood on a rock just above him. He held his rifle in his hand.
“It is not so bad being held prisoner here, is it, Your Majesty?” said the guard.
Napoleon tossed a stone out into the gently lapping waves.
“I am an emperor. I am a prisoner. I despise this place.”
“Have it your way,” muttered the guard, turning away as he added, his voice even lower, “You shouldn’t have started a bloody war!”
Bonaparte could make out the misty coastline of Italy from where he stood. He watched the seagulls circle and dive over the wharf. There, just across the water, were soldiers still loyal to him. His villa here, the hundreds of men and servants who surrounded him, even his six hundred French Imperial guardsmen—it all meant nothing. France was calling, waiting for his return. He was certain.
Would my brilliant commander General Ney join me? Ney, who openly declared he would like to see me brought back in an iron cage. Ney, who breakfasted with Tsar Alexander in Paris! Does my best soldier really despise me so much? My faithful general who served me better than any. Shrewd and brave. Surely he would stand with me once more.
Wouldn’t he?
Napoleon squinted at the coastline again.
We could take back Tuscany! March on to Paris, gathering troops as we go. I know the Frenchman’s heart. I know the Parisians. They would rally around me. “Vive l’empereur!” I can hear the cry.
The Girl Who Fought Napoleon: A Novel of the Russian Empire Page 30