The Girl Who Fought Napoleon: A Novel of the Russian Empire (24 page)

Part 4

A Namesake

Chapter 35

Polotsk, Russia

August 1807

After the Treaty of Tilsit, we returned from the Lithuanian frontiers to old Russia.

Peacetime required a new etiquette from all of us, one that I never learned when we were thrown into battle. The captain sent for Wyszemirski and me. He instructed us to observe all formalities of rank, coming to attention for officers and presenting arms to them—drawing our sabers—when we were on duty. We had to respond to roll call in a barking gruff voice, something I was forced to practice, as it did not come naturally.

We were required to clean the
placowka
—the square where sentries assembled in front of the guardhouse—and to stand watch, guarding the church and powder magazine.

Our regiment, the Pskov Dragoons, was combined in one camp with the Ordensk Cuirassiers. The tents—instead of housing only ten—were as big as ballrooms, with a platoon in each. Among so many men I kept to myself, working hard to disguise my gender by changing my underclothes silently in the cover of night. I washed my intimates in the river when I watered Alcides, stuffing them inside my jacket—and then rolling them tight in my wool blanket and letting them dry while I slept.

They were never completely dry and chafed me, especially the linen pads for my monthlies. I developed a rash that itched like the devil. I longed for quarters where I might have more privacy to tend to my personal hygiene.

As I stood sentry or cleaned the
placowka
with a spade, my mind wandered to my parents, to my home in Sarapul. The captain urged me to write to my father to confirm my station as part of the nobility so that I might be given an officer’s rank. Without proof I was condemned to never rise above the rank of Cadet Durov, essentially an enlisted soldier.

How I longed to write my father! And how long could I endure being a common soldier, especially in peacetime?

Finally I decided I had to write him, if only to let him know I was still alive.

Alcides frisked about now, well rested and putting on weight after battle. I had a difficult time keeping him under control as I led him to the river for water.

“Ah, Alcides!” I said to him, stroking his neck. “You deserve an officer astride you, noble Alcides! How we survived Heilsberg and Friedland is a miracle. Let us hope Papa is proud to have a . . . son, serving the emperor.”

Alcides seemed unconcerned, nibbling at the sweet grass growing in clumps along the riverbank.

I was summoned to report to Major General Kachowski’s headquarters.

“Durov, I want you to tell me the truth. Do your parents know that you enlisted in the army?”

I swallowed, biting my lip.

“No, sir,” I admitted. “They never would have given me permission.”

“I see,” said the major general. He drew a deep breath, saying nothing more. He went to his desk, leafing through some papers.

“You are to be sent to Vitebsk, accompanied by my adjutant Neidhardt. Please surrender your saber, lance, and pistols.”

“Sir?” I gasped. “Yes, sir.”

I fought back tears. Was he sending me back to my parents? Had my father demanded my return?

General Kachowski looked at me with such compassion I almost embraced him. But I stood rooted to the carpet.

“You are a brave soldier, Durov,” the general said. “Despite your bad judgment, you have proved that to all of us. We will miss you.”

He turned away from me, looking out the window. I was sure he had tears in his eyes.

“Dismissed!” he said, without turning around.

Neidhardt and I left Polotsk by carriage, Alcides tied to the back. At first Neidhardt did not speak with me—he appeared aloof and dined alone in the post stations, leaving me outside to watch over the change of horses.

I wondered what he might know or even where we were going, but I dared not ask.

By the time we arrived in Vitebsk, Neidhardt’s demeanor had softened. I was invited to his quarters, and he hosted me to coffee and breakfast. Though we still had not exchanged any meaningful words, I felt more camaraderie.

“Durov,” he said. “I must leave you to report to the commander in chief, Count Buxhowden. Please ready yourself to meet him this afternoon.”

“Count Buxhowden!” I said. “But—why?”

“This is a matter I cannot discuss,” said Neidhardt. I must have looked as desperate as I felt, for he added, “If it comforts you at all, I am ignorant of the matter. I am simply obeying Major General Kachowski’s orders.”

I checked a sob that rose in my throat, turning away from Neidhardt. I already suspected I was being sent home.

Chapter 36

Winter Palace, St. Petersburg

October 1807

Adam Czartoryski requested a private audience with the tsar.

“What brings you here so formally, my friend?” asked Alexander.

“Exactly that, Your Highness,” said Czartoryski. “I want to talk to you as a friend.”

Alexander waited silently while Czartoryski gathered his courage.

“I think you have been misled by your advisors, particularly Prince Dolgoruky.”

Alexander raised his chin.

“I do not like your tone, old friend. One might think you are jealous of your comrades-in-arms.”

“Your Majesty! My sources inform me that he was deliberately rude to Napoleon before the Battle of Austerlitz. A battle that swept away nearly thirty thousand lives.”

“Austerlitz? Why return to old history? We are at peace with Napoleon.”

“Peace? What kind of peace can Russia have with that tyrant?”

Alexander held up his hand, stifling any further comment on his new ally.

“What do you mean, attacking Prince Dolgoruky?” he asked.

“You sent him as an envoy, instead of me. He stuck his finger in Napoleon’s eye.”

“Dolgoruky is not a sycophant to—”

“Sycophant! He is precisely that to you, Alexander. You surround yourself with
faux amis
! At Austerlitz, you seized General Kutuzov’s command with their urging and flattery! You galloped to advanced positions, to the front of the columns.”

“We have already discussed this. I want all my generals to lead by example—at the front of our armies.”

“You should have left the army in the hands of an experienced commander in chief.”

“Kutuzov? That old blind bumbler—”

“He tried to warn you not to proceed with the attack until reinforcements arrived. He tried to save the Russian army—”

“Czartoryski! You have made your point too many times. You are dismissed. Permanently. I am replacing your position as foreign minister with Baron Andre Budberg.”

The Polish prince drew in a heavy breath, stunned.

“I see,” he said. “I am no longer in favor, since I speak the truth. Paul Stroganov and Nikolai Novosiltsev warned me as much. We cannot speak the truth to Alexander as we once did. But I cannot stand by quietly while Russia crumbles.”

Alexander winced hearing the names of his two old friends. A memory of cognac-fueled toasts and dreams of reformation sifted through his mind, then disappeared.

“Our drunken talk was just that! Pipe dreams among boyish friends.”

“I thought—as did the others—that reform in Russia was more than a mere pipe dream, Your Majesty.”

“Russia! You always defended Poland, Adam. Could it be that our alliance with Prussia is the real reason for your bitter criticism? The Prussians are no friends of Poland.”

“They are no friends of Russia either.”

Alexander was slow to anger, but when piqued his temper could burst into flame.

“How dare you attack my staff and motives for making peace with France!”

“Your Majesty knows peace with Napoleon will never last!”

“You come to me, spoiling for a fight, Adam. What do you want me to say?”

“Stand up to Napoleon!” shouted Czartoryski. “Don’t listen to bad counsel, Alexander!”

“Adam! What possesses you to address me in such a tone?”

Czartoryski shook his head.

“Is this outburst solely rooted in politics,” said Alexander “Or . . .”

“Or what?”

Alexander glared at his old friend. “Or it perhaps the Empress Elizabeth who provokes you to such diatribes? And her liaison with Captain Okhotnikov
.
”

Adam Czartoryski’s eyes blazed. His
mind flashed on Elise, his lover, her blond hair strewn over his chest. For a moment he was at a loss for words.

The Tsar drew nearer.

“It is Elise, then,” said Alexander, now more gently. “You are too wise to be jealous, Adam. Don’t make the mis—”

“I understand I have been dismissed, Your Majesty. I shall take my leave, begging your pardon.”

“No. Stay here, Adam. We need to talk,” said the Tsar, his eyes flicking to the closed door. “First, I am assigning you to another post—in Poland. You will be groomed for a leadership role in your own country when reforms take place. Secondly”—Alexander put his arm on his friend’s shoulder—“I do not approve of my wife’s current choice of lover—”

“Anymore than the tsarina approves of Maria Naryshkina,” snapped Czartoryski.

“Damn you, Adam! You know I have my lovers and the empress has hers. But her relationship with you was distinctly different. You are a man of character and morality. But this Alexis Okhotnikov tarnishes her brilliance. The captain is boastful and he jeopardizes Elise’s reputation. I do not believe he is as discreet and loyal as you.”

Czartoryski’s nostrils flared. He looked beyond Alexander at a gold clock ticking the minutes, to avoid the Tsar’s eyes.

Do you know how you are wounding my heart, speaking of her lover? A bullet could do no more harm.

“What’s more, Okhotnikov poses a grave danger,” said Alexander. “My brother, Grand Duke Constantine, despises the man. He warns me daily of the scandalous gossip of the tsarina’s affair circulating amongst the army and in the streets of St. Petersburg.”

Czartoryski stood deadly still. “Can you not send the captain to Siberia?”

“A sudden assignment like that would be a tacit acknowledgement of his relationship with Elise. There would be trouble. She is smitten with him.”

Alexander looked his old friend in the eye—and in an instant, the fate of Russia, which had driven Czartoryski to demand this meeting, was swept aside.

“Adam—Elise is pregnant.”

The opera had been short of brilliant. No matter. Alexis Okhotnikov had indulged in vodka and champagne during the performance, which put him in a good mood, despite the dismal October weather. His thin aristocratic lips pulled up in a smile, making his handsome face turn cruel.

Ah! The slaps on the back, the camaraderie of the regiment. How Okhotnikov’s popularity had risen since the rumor of Tsarina Elizabeth’s pregnancy! Next month he would be the father of a grand duke or grand duchess. No one would dispute paternity, especially not Tsar Alexander. Russia could not risk the disgrace.

A cold rain lashed the stone walls of the Imperial Kamenny Bolshoi Theatre. Okhotnikov turned up his collar to the wet wind coming off the city’s canals.

The brick pavement was slick and he could hear the roughshod horses—already prepared for the snowy winter—resound in a chorus of clicks and clatter as the carriages rolled away from the theater. Voices rang out in laughter, a few words in Russian—several vulgarities—rough and muscular amid the French language. The coach lanterns threw erratic pools of light on the wet road as the voices faded away.

Okhotnikov headed toward a tavern where he could find other officers from his regiment. The strong drink had affected his stride—not staggering, but less than perfectly coordinated.

The vodka and heat of the crowded theater had made him randy. He thought of the Tsarina Elizabeth and her creamy white skin, so smooth under his touch. He sucked in his breath thinking of her bosom and the sweet smell of his lover, pregnant with his child.

I can’t risk entering the Winter Palace at this hour. Under what pretext? I’ve seen how Grand Duke Constantine’s eyes burn with hatred whenever he sees me. Ah, but to touch Elizabeth’s breast, to press my mouth to her lips, to her neck. Everywhere!

How delicious to make a cuckold of our tsar!

Captain Okhotnikov thought back to that morning: how he stood straight and still under the Tsar’s inspection of the regiment. But Okhotnikov had dared to swivel the tip of his tongue back, licking his back molar at some sweet taste left from breakfast. It was a minute movement. But he was sure Tsar Alexander had seen it. The emperor had said nothing—really, what could he say without drawing attention? Everyone knew he was being cuckolded by Alexis Okhotnikov.

How divine! A tsar who bedded down every woman who caught his fancy, who proclaimed emancipation in his marriage—and now his tsarina was pregnant with a cavalry officer’s child. If he be a boy, he would one day inherit the Russian throne.

The Tsar had met Okhotnikov’s eye and then passed to the next soldier in the ranks.

The cocky Okhotnikov had stifled a smile that died on his lips as the Tsar moved on and revealed Grand Duke Constantine’s stormy face, his eyes burning with hatred. The grand duke did not move with his brother but continued to stare at Okhotnikov.

The Tsar was harmless. But the brother.

Alexis Okhotnikov, so deep in reverie, did not notice the dark figure behind him in the rain. He turned only when he heard the racing boot heels strike the wet stones. He saw the gleam of the knife and reached for his sword, but too late.

The stranger’s blade sank deep between Okhotnikov’s ribs, then twisted and forced its way upward within his chest.

The assailant walked off into the darkness, leaving the wounded Captain Okhotnikov lying in the freezing rain.

The room smelled of fetid wounds and death. Tsarina Elizabeth sat by the bedside of her lover who had lain here in fevered pain for two and a half months. The Tsarina dismissed everyone from the room except her lady-in-waiting.

“Alexis! Can you hear me, my darling,” she whispered.

The injured man could only moan.

“You are a father, Alexis. You have a little daughter now. She is beautiful, my love.”

“What is . . . her name?”

“Elizabeth. I call her Lisinka. You must see her, you’ll—”

Okhotnikov writhed. “No. They—He—tried to kill me.”

She flicked a glance at her lady-in-waiting. “Who? Who was it, Alexis?”

“Assassin. He was sent.”

“Sent by whom?”

“The grand duke. Constan—Oh! Oh!” shouted Okhotnikov.

Elizabeth placed her fingertips to her mouth. “Fetch the doctor,” she said to her servant. “At once!”

The doctor rushed in. He saw the fever burning in Okhotnikov’s eyes.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty. It is better if you leave.”

“Of course,” said Elizabeth, gathering her skirts as she rose.

Alexis Okhotnikov died in early January, just days after Orthodox Christmas. It should have been a joyous time, especially after the christening of a new child, the daughter of Tsar Alexander and Tsarina Elizabeth.

But Alexander’s mind was on Napoleon, and Elizabeth could think of nothing but the murder of her lover, father of her child.

Elizabeth had a mausoleum built over Alexis Okhotnikov’s grave: a mighty oak split by lightning, a woman weeping at the foot of the tree.

After the funeral, she refused to leave her apartments in the Winter Palace.

Maria Feodorovna summoned the Tsar.

“The tsarina must accompany the Tsar to functions,” complained the dowager empress. “You must insist, Alexander. You must appear together. She must watch the parades and attend dinners and balls by your side. Otherwise tongues will wag.”

“Mama. Elise is a new mother. She must care for the baby, the—”

“Nonsense! She has nursemaids to attend the child!” snapped Maria Feodorovna.