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

by Linda Lafferty

  Referring frequently to the sheet, he painstakingly composed a coded message.

  He would send it after dinner, when no one was watching.

  That evening Tsar Paul dined with General Mikhail Ilarionovich Kutuzov, hero of the Turkish war. The dinner was splendid and the Tsar joked with the general’s eldest daughter.

  Alexander watched his father’s easy relation and admiration for Kutuzov.

  My father has issued orders for my arrest! Yet look how charming he is with that fat toad of a general.

  Paul studiously ignored his family. He gave his full attention to Kutuzov and his stories of crossing the Alps on horseback in the dead of winter.

  “We dragged the caissons and cannons up the rocky cliffs, hauling them with ropes up precipices higher than the Winter Palace,” said Kutuzov, spooning sugar into his champagne before draining the glass. “Snow was up to the horse’s flanks as we made our way down the mountains.”

  “Now here is a man who loves Russia!” declared the Tsar, raising his glass to Kutuzov. “A man I can trust!” He flicked a glance at Alexander, seated across the table.

  The Tsar held out his glass for the servant to refill.

  The candlelight glimmered against the cut crystal of the wine goblet and reflected brightly in the large mirrors, whose imperfect glass twisted and distorted the light before sending it back again into the room.

  As Tsar Paul laughed at a remark made by General Kutuzov’s daughter, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

  “A most peculiar mirror,” he said, nodding at his reflection, “I see it wringing my neck!”

  Platon Zubov, the last lover of Empress Catherine—and four decades her junior—made his way through the dark, rainy streets of the city. It was just past midnight and St. Petersburg seemed to be holding her breath, waiting for the conspirators to strike.

  The wet wind off the Neva River lashed Zubov’s face with a mix of brackish water and sleet. He looked up at the Winter Palace in the distance, now dark and barricaded. He thought of the lively soirees and the lovemaking Empress Catherine had given so generously.

  His face tightened.

  At the residence of General Talyzen, a servant opened the door only slightly. Then, recognizing Zubov, the attendant ushered him in and offered a glass of brandy. The hot fire warmed the wet wools and furs of the men who were gathered in groups, drinking brandy in hurried gulps. Zubov glanced around, nerves on edge.

  This room smells of wet animals, nervous sweat, and hard liquor. It reeks of danger.

  “Platon! Over here!” called a voice.

  Zubov’s two brothers had already arrived. The three formed a tight knot next to the fire.

  “Are you ready, Platon?” asked one brother.

  “Never have I been more eager,” Platon replied. “I could storm Mikhailovsky Castle alone!”

  “Such hot blood! We will share in the task, my brother.”

  Several other men, including General Pahlen and General Talyzen, had heard Zubov.

  “Listen to Platon Zubov! Now there is a man!” said General Pahlen. “Who else has passion? Who else is a true Russian?”

  The men roared, swigging their cognac, their eyes burning from the alcohol’s fumes.

  Tsar Paul retired to his bedroom, his little dog Spitz at his heels. He scowled at the sentries outside his door. The dog, sensing his master’s unrest, made a low growl.

  “Send for Colonel Sablukov!” the Tsar ordered his manservant.

  Entering his bedchamber, he inspected the carpenter’s work, sealing the door to his mistress’s bedroom. He ran his hand over the door frame to ensure the boards were secure.

  Spitz looked up at his master with a quizzical cock of his head.

  “We cannot be too careful,” the Tsar muttered, patting the dog on his head.

  His two valets stood ready by the dressing room. One silently held out a white nightshirt for the emperor.

  “No, Karl. I will wait until after I have spoken with Colonel Sablukov.”

  There was a knock at the door of the antechamber.

  Colonel Sablukov wore a bewildered expression. “Your Majesty! Is everything in order?

  “Vous êtes Jacobin! Traitor!” shouted the Tsar, his face red with rage.

  Sablukov dropped back a step, his face contorting with surprise.

  “I do not mean you personally, you idiot,” protested the Tsar. “I mean your regiment, my personal guards. I want them disbanded immediately. At four o’clock tomorrow morning I want the entire regiment mustered and sent to another post, do you hear me? Send them to Siberia!”

  “But your son, Alexander, is the colonel-in-chief,” protested Sablukov.

  “I am well aware of that! Send every man in the regiment! Every man. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty!” said Sablukov, blinking.

  “And send away the guards outside my door. I will have my valets take guard duty.”

  “Your valets, Your Majesty?”

  “I trust none of the soldiers in this regiment! Send them all away!”

  The two valets looked at each in stunned silence.

  “Damn it all!” said the Tsar. He saw the coded note on his writing desk.

  Now there is no one I trust to deliver the message to her.

  The band of conspirators—drunk with vodka, fear, and bravado—stumbled through the freezing rain, trampling the slushy snow. They made their way through the park toward Mikhailovsky Castle. Their movements startled the hundreds of crows roosting in the branches of the linden trees, and they let out a shrieking cry, winging away in a black cloud. The men froze, certain that the emperor would have heard the cacophony and that guards would arrest them on the spot. But silence fell again and the men moved on.

  Half the conspirators—a group of twelve, including Platon and Nikolai Zubov, Colonel Bennigsen, and Count Panin—went through the Christmas gate at the corner of the palace grounds and raced upstairs to the Tsar’s apartments.

  Stunned to find only two unarmed valets stationed outside the Tsar’s door, the men pushed them aside and rushed to the bedroom, only to find an empty bed and rumpled sheets. A small dog barked wildly at the intruders.

  “He has escaped!” cried Platon Zubov. “We have come too late!”

  But Colonel Bennigsen, who had consumed far less cognac than the others, spied two bare feet peeking out from behind a red satin screen.

  Bennigsen pushed the screen aside, revealing the Tsar in his nightshirt, bed jacket, and nightcap. The dog, seeing his master collared by the intruders, raced to the rescue, biting at Bennigsen’s ankles.

  The colonel kicked hard and sent the dog limping away, yelping in pain.

  “Your Majesty,” said Bennigsen. “Your reign has ended. Alexander is now our emperor. We are arresting you on his orders. You must renounce your throne. Be reassured, no one wishes to harm you. I’m here to see to that. Accept your fate, for if you offer the least resistance I cannot vouch for your safety.”

  “What have I done to you?” asked Paul. “To any of you?

  An answer was shouted by one man in the group, “You have tortured us for four years!”

  “Shut up,” said Bennigsen. “I’ll do the talking. You must abdicate, Your Majesty—”

  Outside they heard a scuffle and voices.

  “The guards!” hissed someone. “They’ve returned!” The conspirators ran to escape. Only Colonel Bennigsen was left, his sword pointed at the Tsar’s chest to keep him from fleeing.

  The fleeing conspirators ran out the door leading to the hall only to meet face-to-face with the other half of the group, who had lost their way in the castle. Together they returned to the emperor’s bedroom, drunk and clumsy. In the confusion a fire screen fell over, snuffing the one candle that lit the bedroom. In the dark and chaos, Tsar Paul tried to escape.

  “Where do you think you are going,” slurred Platon Zubov. “You are under arrest, Pavel Romanov!”

  “Arrest! Arrest! What
does this mean?” Paul retorted in the darkness. “I will never abdicate! Traitors!”

  A conspirator lunged for him in the dark. Paul could not see his face. He smelled brandy on his attacker’s breath. A pungent nervous sweat filled the small bedchamber. Animal instinct gathered force, each drunken man driven to murderous rage. The veil of darkness gave them a feeling of impunity.

  Furniture crashed to the floor, wood splitting.

  “What have I ever done to you?” screamed the Tsar again, rolling to the ground as an unseen man grappled with him.

  A hand snatched a silk sash from Paul’s bedpost and wound it around the Tsar’s neck. The crowd of men pressed forward, trampling on him. The sash pulled tighter. The Tsar choked, gasping.

  In the melee, the sash loosened and the Tsar shouted again, “Traitors!”

  Bennigsen fought his way through the confusion and into the hallway. He returned moments later, flaming torch in hand. Shadows leapt, and the walls moved with distorted monsters and grasping hands.

  “Do not harm him!” shouted Bennigsen.

  “Traitors!” shouted the Tsar. “You! Get your hands off me, Zubov!”

  “Why do you shout so?” bellowed Nikolai Zubov, a giant of a man. The drunken Zubov struck the emperor on the hand, like a parent admonishing a child.

  Insulted that he had been touched, Paul pushed away Zubov’s hand.

  “Get your hands off me, you disgusting pig,” he shrieked. “How dare you touch the Tsar of Russia with your filthy hand!”

  Zubov’s mouth twisted in hatred. He seized a heavy gold snuffbox and smashed it against the emperor’s head, sending him sprawling on the floor.

  The Tsar, stunned and bleeding, gazed up at the faces of his tormenters. He thought he saw the fair hair and face of his son Constantine.

  “Constantine? You are here?” he cried. “Et tu?”

  The Tsar looked about for his eldest son. Blood blurred his vision, his head whirled. He felt consciousness slipping away.

  Is Alexander here too? Son, my son! Do you remember the cold troika ride through the snows on that long-ago Christmas? I held you tight. You would not stay under the furs, your head popped out like a jack-in-the-box. You wanted to see the first glimpse of Gatchina …

  Gatchina. Our refuge.

  “Get him!” shouted a voice.

  “Tyrant! We will show you justice! For Russia!”

  Your little hand sought mine, under the heavy furs. “I shall stay with you at Gatchina, Papa? Grandmama will not mind?”

  Would that you could have stayed forever, my dear boy.

  There in the darkness, hands reached for the discarded sash.

  Would you forsake me now? You who swore on your knees an oath to me. “It is yours, the throne, Papa. I do not want it …”

  He felt his head roughly lifted from the floor and cool silk tied around his throat.

  As your grandmother willed it. They murder me in my nightshirt just as my father before me.

  Paul’s head jerked back as invisible hands violently pulled the ends of the sash. He gasped, writhed. His breath stopped.

  As he lay on the floor, the conspirators kicked, trampled, and bludgeoned his corpse. This tsar could never be dead enough.

  Grand Duchess Elizabeth paced in her bedchamber. Outside in the antechamber, Alexander could hear his wife’s light step.

  A tap on the door arrested her steps. A servant went to answer.

  “You are dismissed, Ivan,” Alexander said as he saw General Pahlen in the antechamber.

  Pahlen handed the grand duke a sheaf of papers.

  Alexander sat at his desk, his eyes studying the manifesto drawn up by the conspirators.

  “Sit, Count,” commanded the young duke.

  “You are most gracious, Your Majesty, but I prefer to stand.”

  “By signing this, I become part of the conspiracy,” said Alexander.

  “Your Majesty, your signature only affirms that you agree to accept the throne after your father’s retirement. He will abdicate tonight.”

  Alexander frowned. “But I should think that would be obvious that I will be tsar. I am the heir apparent.”

  “Please, I beg you, Your Highness,” countered Pahlen. “Lives are now at stake, risking all to save Russia. Your signature shows that you take your responsibility as the new emperor with strong resolve. A smooth transition. That is all.”

  Alexander picked up the pen, dipping the nib into the pot of ink. With a flourish he signed his name.

  “May I?” asked Pahlen. He held the blotter in his hand. He pressed down firmly.

  He seals my fate. Why does my heart beat like a rabbit, pursued by a hound? Have I no courage? Have I—

  A commotion at the entry of Alexander’s apartment sent him jumping up from his chair.

  Nikolai Zubov appeared at the door, accompanied by one of Alexander’s personal guards. His face was flushed, his speech slurred with emotion and drink.

  “The emperor Paul has died in a fit of apoplexy!” he declared.

  Alexander’s eyes darted to the parchment, now grasped firmly in Pahlen’s hands.

  “What? How can that be?”

  He collapsed back into his chair, his face ashen. His lips quivered, “I cannot …” he said.

  “Get hold of yourself, Your Majesty,” said General Pahlen. “This is a moment for courage.”

  Alexander felt the cold wind of a long-ago January evening biting his cheek, the bells of the sledge ringing over the fields of snow.

  “Abdication—you, Pahlen! You all said abdication! Not murder!”

  “You must act for all Russia now. Russia needs a strong leader. The people do not care how it came to be! Only that a strong hand holds the reins. What has happened is of no consequence now.”

  “No consequence? No consequence! You are mad, Count Pahlen! I cannot go on with it. I have no strength to reign. I will resign my power and give it to whoever wants it!”

  “Do not behave like a child, Your Majesty! This is no time—”

  “Let those who have committed the crime be responsible for the consequences.”

  Count Pahlen stiffened, rage filling his throat.

  “The fate of millions now depends on your firmness, your strength. Go and reign, damn it!”

  Grand Duchess Elizabeth flew into the room, the door banging behind her. She covered her mouth with her hand in horror.

  She had heard everything from the adjoining room.

  “Alexander!” she said. “Oh, Alexander!”

  Alexander opened his arms to his wife. He sobbed into her white shoulders.

  “Elise, what am I to do?” he cried. “What am I to do?”

  “Calm yourself, my darling,” she whispered. “Send this wretched man away! We will think together, you and I. Just send him away at once!”

  “Count Pahlen! Leave us,” said Alexander. “I will send for you later.”

  “Your Highness, I will remain outside until—”

  “Go!”

  The door shut behind the count.

  Elizabeth pressed her husband’s head to her breast. “I will stay at your side, always. We will make a plan, Alexander. Have courage, my love.”

  He clung to her words like a drowning man.

  The next morning, Alexander stood on the balcony overlooking the parade square of the Winter Palace.

  Fighting for control of his voice, he addressed the soldiers and guards of the palace.

  “My father is … dead. He died of an apoplectic seizure. I am now the Tsar. During my reign everything will be done according to the spirit and principles of my grandmother, the empress Catherine II.”

  Without further remark, Alexander—now Alexander I, Tsar and emperor—withdrew into the castle.

  How shall I have the strength to rule, plagued with the constant memory that my father was assassinated?

  An hour after Emperor Paul’s death, Sir James Wylie, chief physician to the Romanov Court, arrived to prepare Paul’s body for viewin
g. Not long after that, Johann Jacob Mettenleiter, who had painted the delicately adorned panels for the state bedroom in Pavlovsk Palace, was summoned to make the corpse presentable. Escorted by the Imperial Guard, he carried his paints in a canvas satchel.

  “Do your best,” said the Scottish doctor. “He was your patron—you know how he looked in life. Make him whole again.” Mettenleiter stared in horror at the task he had been given. As an artist, he had created great beauty. Now he painted a living face on a dead man, brutally mutilated. He tried to imagine he was painting a portrait on canvas, rather than the dead flesh of the man who had been his emperor. Mettenleiter disguised the gash from the gold snuffbox and tried to restore a normal color to Paul’s face. He painted over the many bruises and lesions.

  When the artist finally left the bedchamber hours later, he was hunched and pale, visibly shaken. Sir Wylie bowed to Alexander, who was waiting anxiously outside the door.

  “I pray you enter now, Your Highness,” said the doctor, bowing to the new emperor.

  Alexander entered the chamber, falling to his knees beside the exquisitely painted doll who had been his father.

  “Fetch my mother, Empress Maria Feodorovna,” he whispered. “She has sent word she will not recognize me as emperor until she has seen my father’s … corpse.”

  Alexander remained at his father’s bedside, the shadows of the guttering candles illuminating the profile of the kneeling man, his tear-streaked face bowed in prayer. His right hand flew across his head and body in the sign of the cross.

  Maria Feodorovna entered and stood speechless at the sight. She removed her dead husband’s tilted cap, her fingers hovering over the deep gash in his left temple.

  She drew in a breath, fingering the wound camouflaged with thick paint.

  “Where is the nightshirt he wore?” she asked.

  “I do not know—”

  “Send an order immediately. I want that nightshirt. Unwashed. I will keep it with me always,” Maria Feodorovna said, bending over her dead husband to kiss his forehead.

  With the stoicism of a Romanov, she turned stiffly to her son and said, “I now wish you great joy, Alexander. You are emperor.” Her mouth puckered as if she were tasting a bitter herb.

  “Mama, I—”