The Girl Who Fought Napoleon: A Novel of the Russian Empire (40 page)

Chapter 67

Taganrog, Russia

October 1825

After considerable persuasion, Tsar Alexander granted Count Volkonsky’s urgent request that he leave his seaside retreat for a journey to inspect the region of Crimea.

“But why must you leave me?” asked Elizabeth. “We have been so happy together here.”

“I must attend to Russia’s affairs, Elise,” he replied. “It is expected of me. But I shall be back before too long.”

The nation was unsettled. There were constant rumors of plots to overthrow the Tsar. Alexander kissed his wife and turned to go.

If I had a son, would he be plotting my assassination? Is this how my father felt before his death?

He touched the cloth sachet tied on a cord around his neck. The little bag that held a scrap of paper his father had written the night before his murder.

Alexander loved Crimea. Feasts were prepared for the Tsar: pilavs studded with meat and carrots, meat-stuffed grape leaves, spicy lamb and eggplant stews, fried turnovers with minced meat and onions.

The Tsar drank the local wines produced from Bordeaux and Champagne vines brought from France and lovingly cultivated on this southern border of Russia. Alexander was delighted with the rich heritage that marked Crimea.

All of these people—many who do not speak Russian—are my children.

He explored far-flung communities on horseback, traveling over nearly impassable roads. His excursions lasted many hours in the volatile maritime climate, where temperatures plunged and storms boiled up without warning. One night in late October he took a shortcut from Balaklava to the Monastery of St. George. A bitter wind came up from the sea. Alexander was wearing only a light uniform. Though shivering, he refused to stop and put on a coat.

When he reached Sevastopol he felt dizzy and asked for hot tea. He refused dinner.

The next morning he woke early and dressed.

“Why do you not rest, Your Majesty?” asked Count Volkonsky.

“I am the father of Russia and I must visit my many children. There are so many places I must visit yet. Only by showing my goodwill and interest will the people know I love them.”

“But you are exhausted, Your Majesty. And the weather has turned cruel.”

“So be it. I will travel in the barouche.”

Tsar Alexander pushed himself on through the day, rushing to visit churches, barracks, hospitals, and fortresses. Late in the afternoon, a courier named Major Maskov from St. Petersburg met his barouche and delivered a packet of dispatches. He was tall and broad shouldered like the tsar, though he sat his horse considerably better.

“Follow our carriage, Major,” ordered Alexander. “I will have some replies for you to carry back to St. Petersburg.”

The barouche took off scattering dust, the horses pulling the carriage at a gallop. The courier’s coach tried to keep up but hit a pothole in the road and overturned. Major Maskov was killed on the spot, his skull split on impact.

The Tsar was distraught at the thought of one more man’s blood on his hands.

At the end of the long day, the Tsar was ill with fatigue and nausea. He was haunted by the death of the courier, Major Maskov. He shivered, his teeth chattering, despite sitting by a blazing fire in a small inn.

“I must get home to the tsarina,” he insisted.

“First you must rest, Your Majesty,” said his doctor, James Wylie. “You are seriously ill.”

“You do not understand! I must return to the tsarina,” said Alexander.

“But, Your Majesty—” protested the physician.

“On to Taganrog!” ordered the Tsar, lurching upright and heading back out to his carriage.

Driven by the Tsar’s fierce insistence, they traveled almost without stopping for two days.

“I must reach home. I must see my wife,” he insisted. “Drive on!”

At last, the Tsarina Elizabeth received her husband.

“What is wrong with him?” she asked in panic as he collapsed in her arms.

“His Majesty has bilious gastric fever,” Doctor Wylie said. “I could not persuade him to rest.”

“But he was so sound, so healthy before he left for Crimea.”

“Yes, my tsarina. He took a chill. The illness struck him suddenly. And he had a dreadful shock. A courier was thrown from a coach and died. It seemed to affect the Tsar deeply.”

“Elizabeth,” whispered the Tsar. “My sweet Elise.”

The Tsar refused the medicine Doctor Wylie proposed to put in his drink. Plagued by his fever and a lifetime of fears, he was wary of strange potions, afraid he was being poisoned.

Alexander dreamt that night of this same Doctor Wylie, who had attended his father, Emperor Paul, after his brutal death and had directed a young artist to paint the corpse.

Several days passed and Alexander saw no improvement.

Alexander’s skin turned sallow. He passed in and out of consciousness.

Tsarina Elizabeth came to his beside and took his hand.

“My darling, you are gravely ill.”

“I think not,” he answered. “I’m just weak. Open the sash so I can breathe the sea air.”

A servant opened the window. The breeze filled the white curtain like a sail.

“I shall call for a priest,” Elizabeth said.

“Am I really so gravely ill?”

“Yes, my darling. You have reached the limits of this world.”

Alexander nodded, his eyes meeting hers. “You have always given me good counsel. Give orders. I am ready.”

The archpriest of the Cathedral of Taganrog came and performed last rites. Alexander asked all parties to leave his bedchamber while he gave a very long last confession.

Then with his wife, close advisors, and two of his six doctors watching, Alexander Romanov took communion.

At last, he took his wife’s hand and kissed it. “I have always relied on you, my dear. Never have I felt a greater pleasure than giving this final confession.”

He exchanged a look with his wife.

“It is finished,” he said. “Now, physicians. Do your work as you see fit.”

The doctors applied thirty-five leeches to the Tsar’s body, chiefly behind the ears and on the back of his neck. They applied cold compresses to his head.

His condition improved but only briefly.

He lost consciousness again. Only when the tsarina would speak in his good ear would he respond. He took her hand, pressed it to his heart, and turned toward the icon beside his bed. He quietly prayed.

He fell asleep once more. With strangled groans, he struggled to live.

Only the Tsar’s closest confidants stayed in the bedroom. Elizabeth held her husband’s hand until his last breath. Her face wet with tears, the tsarina tied up his gaping jaw with her own embroidered handkerchief.

Tsarina Elizabeth was too weak to follow her husband’s body back to St. Petersburg. It was December and the weather was frigid. Her health was extremely fragile. Her illness, which had nearly disappeared during her stay in Taganrog, had returned.

She cried as she watched the coach roll away.

She wrote to her mother:

All earthly ties are severed. We walked through life together for thirty-two years. Often separated we always found each other in one way or another.

Will we ever find each other again in the world beyond?

The Tsar’s coffin was kept closed for the entire trip, though the crowds of his subjects begged to see their great tsar, the man who had defeated Napoleon. Shepherds came down from their hills with their flocks. They prostrated themselves in front of the royal coach. Peasants unhitched the horses and pulled the carriage themselves, their tears freezing on their faces like diamonds.

Chapter 68

Yelabuga, Russia

February 1864

“And that was the end of the great Tsar Alexander?”

Who is asking? Whose voice is that?
My son. Ivan Chernov. The child I had before I ran away with Alcides to join the cavalry. No. That was long ago. This is my grandson. The child of the son I abandoned. How did I get so old?

I focus on his face. I see it as if in a dream.

Where has my life gone?

The fire crackles, spitting a spark that embeds in the carpet and begins to smolder. A young man jumps up and smothers it with the sole of his boot.

“The end of Tsar Alexander?” I say. I shake my head and the silence stretches out. “So you’ve heard the legend of Feodor Kuzmich? The hermit who was allegedly Tsar Alexander I, who lived in a hovel in Siberia?”

The young man—my grandson!—shrugs. “I have heard of it. Is it true, Grandmama?”

“True?” I say, shrugging. “What is truth? That I disguised myself as a man for a decade to fight against Napoleon? That I was a daughter and a mother, but also a son and a soldier?

I press my fingertips to my forehead. I feel deathly old.

“Please tell me.”

I hear the clawing of the cat on the wooden door. “Just let my dear cat in. How she insists! I need my friend on my lap to tell you the rest of the tale.”

Vladimir opens the door and Babushka runs in and jumps up into my lap. I stroke her fur and she purrs.

“The legend is that Alexander staged his death. He was surrounded by only his most trusted confidants, who kept his secret and arranged his transport from the port. It is said he traveled to Palestine, where he took the name of Feodor Kuzmich and lived for years as a hermit and a monk, practicing his faith in God.”

For a moment, I lose my way. I hear the sound of trumpets, the clash of sabers. The thunder of the cannons moving closer.

“Grandmama?”

I will myself to leave those shadows of war.

“They say he returned to Russia and he was flogged in the small town of Kraznoufimsk, Siberia, for not having any identity papers. Neither tsar nor hermit has papers! He was deported into the far reaches of Siberia, where peasants sheltered him. There, his great knowledge of the Scriptures and his holy ways won him renown. They say he cured the sick by the laying on of hands, that a strange perfume emanated from his flesh and beard, that light illuminated his simple hovel without candle or flame.”

“But was he really Tsar Alexander?”

I shrugged.

“Feodor Kuzmich was tall, blue eyed, slightly deaf in the left ear. He knew much about St. Petersburg and about the royal family. Impossible things for a simple hermit to know. He spoke several languages fluently. And the man who would become Tsar Alexander II—Tsar Alexander’s nephew—made the long journey from St. Petersburg to Siberia in 1837 to visit the hermit.”

I search my memory for more details. I know they are there. How can I remember so much and still, somehow, have forgotten my son. My son!

“When the coffin of Tsar Alexander was opened, years after his death—there was no body resting there. The sepulchre was empty.”

“But . . . but what of Elizabeth? Did she follow him to Siberia?

“I do not think so. Elizabeth was ill for a very long time. She would not have had the strength for that life. Some say that the tsarina took a vow never to speak and entered the convent of the province of Novgorod, where she was known as Vera the Silent.”

“And Adam Czartoryski? What became of him?”

“He never stopped fighting for his dream of an independent Polish nation. Let me remember . . . I think Czartoryski led a revolt, but Russia crushed the rebellion and he was sentenced to death. I heard Tsar Nicholas commuted the sentence to exile. He was his brother’s best friend, after all.”

“Did he ever see the Tsarina Elizabeth again?”

“No. No, I think they never met again. Czartoryski married a Polish noblewoman and moved to Paris. I know nothing more.”

I shake my head, trying to clear all this—all these legends—away. Real life is right here beside me.

“What do I know? I am an addled old woman who deserted her son to join the cavalry. Did your grandfather—my . . . husband—ever forgive me?

“No, Grandmama,” he says. “He would never mention your name or allow it to be spoken under his roof.” He looks down at the carpet.

I nod silently.

“But I admire you!” my grandson insists. “After Papa died, I had to know who you were. My mysterious grandmother. I asked neighbors. I asked family. Eventually I found my way to Sarapul.”

I blink, my eyes begin to tear. I have not heard that town mentioned in so very long. The town where I was raised. The town where I was given Alcides. The town I fled.

My grandson doesn’t see that I am crying. He has all the heedlessness of youth. Just as I once did.

“I was so proud to learn that my grandmother fought the great battles against Napoleon. My grandmother! Can you imagine my pride? The friendship you had with Tsar Alexander. Your legend is cherished.”

I focus my blurred eyes on Vladimir. He reaches out to stroke Babushka behind her ears. How much he looks like me.

“You weren’t ashamed of me?” I ask.

“Ashamed? You are Russia’s hero! Would I have made this long trip to see you if I was anything but proud of you, Grandmama?”

“But I left you. No, I mean I left your father. Yes, I remember.” And, yes, now I do. I must. “I followed a Cossack. A tall man with green eyes. But a man who kept my secret, just as Tsar Alexander did.”

Vladimir lifts his chin. I can see him struggle with his emotions.

“What became of him? That Cossack.”

“He died shortly after the great Battle of Leipzig, of the disease they call typhus. Despite all the bloodshed of battle, he died on a straw pallet. I have a letter somewhere,” I said. I swallowed hard as if I had a piece of cucumber stuck in my throat.

I knew the letter by heart:

Dear Little Alexandrova:

I shall have this letter delivered to the Tsar. General Platov will see that the emperor receives it. Only he knows whether you live or not. To have these words read to you is my last request.

They say you are dead. I do not believe it. I have looked out over the battlefields and in my heart I see one campfire among the thousands flickering in the night. You must be there. I know it.

I am sorry that you chose to follow me after our night together. To leave your husband! A baby at home. Guilt has chased me ever since, more true than a bullet.

You must forgive me but what could I do? I am a Cossack! To find a girl riding bareback in her thin nightgown in the mountains. Alone.

And was I wrong? I sensed you loved me though you did not say.

Forgive me for what I did to you that night on Startsev Mountain. If you have died on the battlefield I will never forgive myself. Nor will God.

I have heard the battles you have fought—the same as I! Heilsberg, Friedland, Smolensk, Borodino. I have followed your legend and hold you close to my heart even now as I lie dying.

Yet it is not a saber, bullet, or cannonball that now steals my life. I am dying of the disease that has killed so many of our soldiers—and the enemy’s too. My body is racked and I can feel my mind slipping away.

An ignoble death is my curse.

May God bless you, Alexandrova, my Nadya Durova. May you and Alcides find your way home safely.

My eternal love and devotion,

Anatoli Denisov

I stretch my stiff neck, looking up at my visitor. Never have I felt so old and so lost.

“Tell me why you are here again.”

“To ask for your blessing of my marriage, Grandmama.”

Marriage.

“You have my blessing.” I rest my hand on the crown of his head as he kneels before me.

We are both silent for a minute. We listen to the whine of the wind as the storm rages outside.

“Do you ever regret anything?” he asks as he settles back into his chair.

“I regret not traveling back to St. Petersburg one last time and thanking the Tsar Alexander for his trust. For keeping his word. For caring for your father and educating him in St. Petersburg.”

I suppose he thought I was going to say I regretted leaving my family. But to his credit he only nods, contemplating.

“Was it the Cossack that forced you to leave?” His voice is thick with emotion.

“
Nyet, nyet!
”
I say, waving away the words. “People might say that because they don’t understand me. Because that is sordid and tasty to foul-mouthed gossips.”

I clench my teeth in anger.

“Why must a man be the cause of everything a woman does in her life? I left because I wanted freedom. To ride my horse across the open steppes of Russia, to serve my Tsar. To fight Napoleon. Nothing else. The Cossack was only the spark that started the bonfire within me. But I built that fire stack stick by stick. I fell in love with the cavalry life, not with him.”

Vladimir seeks my eyes.

“You are a legend—as much as Tsar Alexander himself.”

“Tsar Alexander promised me he would care for my family so that I could fight in the campaign against Napoleon. He gave your father the best education, the best care, as he promised he would. And I see that promise fulfilled by the fine young man that you are. Our great emperor—the Sphinx of Russia, they called him. Inscrutable. Who else could keep such a great secret and give a mother the freedom to serve Russia the same as a man?”

“I shall never forget how good he was to my father.” He is on his knees now, beside my chair.

“My son, my son,” I murmur, stroking his temples. My mind tells me he is my grandson, not my son—but these are the words I have to speak through him, through my flesh and blood, to the son I left behind. “Promise me never to forget the legacy of Tsar Alexander. For if he had not given me refuge in Russia’s cavalry and had he not given me his name, I would have been no more than a terrible mother.”

“Neither of the two Alexanders will be forgotten,” he promises. “Russia will always remember our heroes!”

He takes my hand in his. I try to smile at his kindness. History and heroes are too easily forgotten. The truth becomes a smudge on the page until it is erased forever.

Where is he, the good tsar who gave me his name?

I look out into the driving snow and feel a strange pain in my heart, as if I have been suddenly separated from a twin.