But again the orders came. “Retreat. Retreat.”
Rostopchin’s army had deserted Moscow! Our ancient capital was left defenseless, with no one guarding the gates and walls.
I saw the stunned look in my comrades’ eyes as they went through the motions of tightening their horses’ cinches, mounting up, and staring at the great white walls of Moscow.
Defenseless. Only we, the defeated, stood between Napoleon and Moscow. There would be no further battle. Kutuzov had ordered a stand-down.
Our regiment rode through Moscow. Wagons and carts still choked the streets, though the majority of inhabitants had already fled. Civilians who had no horses or means of transportation cried out to us.
“Do not surrender Moscow! Protect us!”
“Defend our ancient capital! Do not let Napoleon defile our city!”
Kutuzov rode ahead in his carriage, pulling down the canvas shades on his windows.
We camped two or three versts beyond the walls, while the main army was stationed even further away.
One of my uhlans suddenly turned in his saddle, looking back to Moscow.
“Look!”
All eyes swiveled. Bright yellow and red flames leaped amongst the wooden houses in one corner of the city. It was not long before the smell of smoke filled our nostrils.
“The demons!” said one of the uhlans.
“It would have been better to perish to a man than to sacrifice Moscow!”
“This is how our General Kutuzov defends Russia!” said another.
“No, this is how Rostopchin leaves our sacred capital. He was ordered to stay and fight. Instead he leaves the city in ashes!”
“Shut up,” hissed a soldier. “You’ll be facing a firing squad if you keep up that talk.”
He was right. The words were treasonous. But I’d wager my soul that everyone in our squadron—the entire regiment—was thinking the same thing.
“What barbarians are these French,” said another uhlan, turning the conversation away from Kutuzov. “Why would they set fire to Moscow after fighting so hard to get here? What will be left for them?”
“They will ransack our churches,” said the one who had complained so bitterly about Kutuzov. “Mark my words: Napoleon has no respect for our religion.”
Captain Podjampolsky rode up.
“Hold your tongues and move out, soldiers!” he said.
He must have seen the emptiness in my eyes, the supreme sense of loss.
“Kutuzov has not forsaken Russia. Napoleon will find as winter approaches that his soldiers cannot eat gold.”
My donkey of a horse set off at a trot only after I gave him a smack with the flat of my saber. His jolting action threatened to loosen my teeth from my jaw. A cavalry soldier is only as good as his mount. With this Cossack nag I could neither ride to meet the enemy nor run away from him.
Colonel Stackelberg charged me with forage detail, to procure hay for the regiment’s horses.
All I could think of was Alcides. No horse would ever be the same as he—so brave, so willing. How he trusted me. And I brought him to this war.
I forced myself to stop thinking of him, at least for minutes at a time. The vision of his suffering rendered me immobile, useless. Lost. A danger to myself and everyone around.
I set off with a detachment and two hay wagons toward a little hamlet. My sergeant pointed beyond our destination.
“That’s where the reserve horses are kept, sir,” he said. “It is about a verst beyond.”
Zelant! Only a verst away. Minutes from me!
“Load up your wagons and then wait there in the forest edge to hide. I will be back immediately.”
But Fate has no mercy. The uhlan reserve horses were stationed another three versts beyond. I spurred my unhappy nag into what one could not call a gallop but a “galumpf.” Then it stopped, resisting my kicks and traveling only at a snoring walk. If I had the choice of fighting two more battles of Borodino or riding this beast two more days, I would have chosen the former.
As I approached the camp, I spied Zelant on the picket line and threw my reins to the attending solider.
“Take this horse!” I said. “Give me a decent saddle and I’ll gladly give you mine. Zelant there, that is my horse.”
It took a few minutes for the sergeant to find a saddle but within a quarter of an hour, I was on my way.
When I finally reached the edge of the forest where my detachment should have been waiting for me, I found no one.
The soft grass was churned up by galloping horses. I thought the worst. I raced back to the encampment.
When Colonel Stackelberg saw me riding into camp alone he turned blue with rage.
“Where is your detachment, Alexandrov?”
I explained the situation.
“You left your troops! How dare you commit such a stupid act?” he shouted. “Now they are lost and the enemy has occupied the forest. Go find those men and if you return without them, I shall report you and you will be shot!”
Stunned, I reined Zelant back to the forest. When I reached the edge I encountered an officer I knew from the Imperial Guards standing in the front line of our skirmishers.
“Where are you going, Alexandrov?” he said.
I told him my story of woe and that I was sent to return with the foragers or face a firing squad.
“Not to worry, brother. I’m willing to bet that your detachment took cover and went the long way to safety. Ride to the hamlet where we’re keeping our rearguard reserve horses. You’ll find them there.”
“But that’s where I came from!” I said.
I galloped away along the road, skirting the action in the forest. When I reached the picket line, there was my detachment.
“Why didn’t you wait for me?” I asked.
“We heard galloping and gunfire in the forest, sir,” said the sergeant. “I ordered the wagons down the road away from the action. We thought we’d meet up with you.”
“Well, Colonel Stackelberg has threatened to shoot me because of this escapade!” I said. “Let’s return to camp and hope Stackelberg isn’t aiming a pistol my way when we get there.”
I was angrier than I have ever been. Damned German! I didn’t go looking for Stackelberg to make my report. Using a pencil stub in my pack I dashed off a note on a rag of paper to Captain Podjampolsky:
Inform Col. Stackelberg that I am not eager to be shot. I’m going to the commander in chief and try to obtain a post on his staff.
Kutuzov. I would apply directly to General Kutuzov, commander in chief of the entire Russian army. It seemed I still had an endless supply of sheer brash nerve.
I rode to the commander in chief’s temporary headquarters several versts down the road at a Muscovite’s country estate that Kutuzov had requisitioned.
The attending sergeant directed me to the main house, where adjutant generals hurried in and out the doors like ants.
I entered the anteroom, which was filled with the masculine smell of tobacco, leather, and cognac—far more appealing than our officers’ hovel.
There was a group of adjutants. I studied their faces and went up to the one who had the kindest face, a colonel.
“Please, sir, I must speak to the commander in chief,” I said.
“About what?” asked the colonel, raising his eyebrows. His face wrinkled with amusement. “You must know he is waging a war against Napoleon.”
I pressed my lips tight with determination. He did not take me seriously.
“Please, Colonel!”
“Tell me your business and I will relay the message.”
“No. I must speak to him personally without witnesses. Please do not refuse me this favor,” I said, bowing.
He gave me a curious look, tangled with irritation.
“Let me see what I can do,” he said.
He entered Kutuzov’s room. A minute later he returned.
“If you please,” he said, holding open the door.
I entered a r
oom thick with tobacco smoke. With my first step toward the gray-haired veteran, the legendary leader, venerable hero of Russia, I felt my heart hammering.
General Kutuzov looked at me like a jovial crow out of his one good eye. He gestured with an open hand. “What can I do for you, my friend?”
My friend—the great Kutuzov’s first words to me.
Overcome with awe I stood dry mouthed before him. The general stared at me. I was just one among hundreds of thousands of soldiers he commanded. How did I have the nerve to demand a private interview?
“I have come to ask you to grant a great favor. I would like the good fortune to be an orderly for the rest of the campaign.”
Kutuzov’s fleshy face drew up, wrinkling.
“What’s the reason for this extraordinary request and, more importantly, for the manner in which you propose it?”
“Colonel Stackelberg has threatened to have me shot.”
I launched into my story of how I had been born into the army and had only one desire in life—to be in Russia’s cavalry.
“Since my birth, I have consecrated my life to the army, to the cavalry, forever. I am ready to shed my last drop of blood defending the welfare of the emperor. I revere him as I do God. I do not deserve to be threatened with a shot to the head by a German.”
“Colonel Stackelberg actually threatened you with death?” asked the commander in chief.
“Yes, sir.”
I told him of my previous campaigns: Heilsberg, Friedland, Smolensk, Borodino, and the skirmishes in between. He nodded his head once or twice, surveying me.
“I see you limp. Were you wounded?”
“Yes, sir. In Borodino.”
Finally I told him the tragedy of losing Alcides, the hardest blow of all. It was the only time I became overcome with emotion. I checked myself and changed the subject, but not before my voice cracked.
“You are indeed a brave officer,” said Kutuzov.
A hot wave of blood flooded my face, burning my cheeks.
“In the Prussian campaign, Your Honor, all my commanders praised my bravery. I tell you that only to prove that I do not deserve to be executed by a German officer.”
“You served in the Prussian campaign? Can you really have been in the army then? How old are you? I assumed you were not more than sixteen.”
“I am twenty-three, Your Excellency. I began service in the Polish Horse Regiment.”
In all this time, I had not pronounced my name. I felt General Kutuzov’s eyes boring into me.
“Tell me your name,” he said.
“Alexander Alexandrov, sir.”
Kutuzov hauled himself to his feet and embraced me. “How glad I am to have the pleasure of meeting you in person. I have heard about you, Alexandrov. The emperor has spoken to me personally about your bravery. And your—unusual background.”
Kutuzov knew. I straightened my back, standing erect and stiff, but I did not drop my gaze as the general inspected my physique and uniform with his one good eye.
“As for the threat to shoot you,” said General Kutuzov, “you shouldn’t take it so much to heart, Lieutenant. Those were empty words, spoken in anger. This war makes us all testy. But go now to Adjutant General Konovnitsyn and tell him you are to be a permanent orderly on my staff.”
“Yes, Your Honor!”
I thanked him profusely and walked toward the door.
“You are limping badly, Alexandrov,” he said. “Tell my doctor to examine you immediately.”
“Oh, it’s not bad,” I lied.
“A contusion from a cannonball? Do as I say, Alexandrov. Immediately.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. Filled with joy, I closed the door quietly behind me.
We lived in the village of Krasnaja Pakhra not far from Moscow. We orderlies were relegated to a plank hut, drafty and damp. We huddled against the cold. It was true that my wound was not healed. I had a fever and quaked like a birch leaf.
Adjutant General Konovnitsyn remembered me from my Hussar days. I was the quickest to deliver a message. Ah, those days with my brilliant Alcides!
Now, to my great misfortune, any time there was a message to be delivered he would ask for that “uhlan orderly.” With my poor health “that uhlan orderly” looked like a pale vampire dashing between regiments and even sometimes between wings of the army.
Finally General Kutuzov sent for me.
He took my hand as soon as I entered the room.
“Well, Alexandrov. Have you found it more peaceful here with me than under Colonel Stackelberg? Have you rested up and healed?”
He looked closely at my face.
“My God, you are pale! And thin. What on earth is wrong with you, Alexandrov?”
I was forced to tell him the truth. My leg had not healed and I had to cling to the mane of my horse to stay in the saddle.
“I am ordering you home to your father. Rest, recover. Then come back.”
Go home!
“How can I go home when not a single man is leaving the army? Russia needs every soldier to fight Napoleon.”
“That is an order, Lieutenant,” he said. “We’ve stopped here without action for the time being,” he said, as he looked out the window at the flapping banners. “Perhaps we will be here for a long time. You go home or I’ll put you in the camp hospital.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Your Honor, may I bring my little brother back with me? He is fourteen and it would be an honor for him to start his career under your aegis.”
“Da, Alexandrov,” said General Kutuzov. He smiled to himself, my name bringing him satisfaction. “Bring him back with you. I will be like a father to him.”
Chapter 50
Kamenny Island, St. Petersburg
September 1812
Alexander strode into his war office and threw his gloves on the desk in disgust.
“Rostopchin deserted Moscow?”
“Those are the reports we have received, Your Majesty,” said Count Arakcheyev. “Rostopchin’s guards were to hold the city if possible, but they were gone when Kutuzov’s army got there. The city was almost deserted. Kutuzov had no choice. He marched straight through Moscow and out the Kaluga gates.”
“Rostopchin simply left Moscow? The scoundrel!”
“There is a report that he has rigged the chimneys and stoves with powder kegs. When the French try to set a fire to warm themselves or cook, they will be blown sky high!”
“And destroy Moscow. The blasted traitor!”
“Without reinforcements Rostopchin felt he could not protect Moscow from Napoleon.”
“Hah! He didn’t even wait for Kutuzov, did he?” The Tsar sat at his desk, anger and disappointment clear on his face. “Tell me, how are the people in St. Petersburg taking the news?”
Count Arakcheyev lowered his gaze to the silvery-white marble floor.
“They cannot believe it, Your Excellency,” his head still lowered. “Many are stockpiling food and preparing to give shelter to their Muscovite friends and family. The gossip on the street is that Napoleon has set his sights on St. Petersburg. He will not be satisfied until all Russia is under his thumb.”
The Tsar rose again, unable to sit and listen any longer.
After a moment, the adjutant general spoke again, trying to calm the emperor: “I don’t think Napoleon will go any further, sire. He doesn’t realize it yet, but he is trapped—caught between our armies … and our winter. Kutuzov is blocking the southern route on the Kaluga road. Napoleon’s only way out of Russia is back through Smolensk—which is burned. All the crops and food supplies are cinders and ash. There will be no forage for horses, or victuals for men. Russia will suffer, but we can withstand the pain, Your Majesty.”
The weary Tsar returned that night to the Winter Palace. The tsarina rushed to meet him as he entered the door.
“Is it true, Alexander? Has Napoleon really taken Moscow?”
Alexander embraced his wife, tears sparkling in his eyes.
“Yes.”
“Oh, Alexander! How can this be? How could we let the wolf in the gates?” Elizabeth pressed a hand to her lips. “What will become of the Kremlin? The churches! He and his soldiers will defile them—”
Alexander shook his head vehemently. “I don’t know how this happened. Rostopchin deserting, Kutuzov marching through the city but not defending it.”
Elizabeth watched her husband’s face wrinkle in pain.
“Kutuzov must have weighed the risks. If he knew his army would be defeated, he—”
“Are you defending Kutuzov?” said Alexander.
“As if the general needs me to defend him!” said Elizabeth. “I’m simply trying to fathom why Moscow was deserted.”
Alexander pressed his hands to his temples.
“It is a disaster! My grandmother Catherine must be shedding bitter tears in heaven. The French in Moscow!”
“Come, Alexander. Have a glass of Burgundy—”
“Burgundy! I hate all things French.”
Elizabeth touched her husband’s hand, saying nothing. Alexander’s fingers unfurled, taking her hand in his own.
Chapter 51
Outside Moscow
September 1812
Two days after ordering me to return home on medical leave, Kutuzov sent for me again.
“Here are your travel orders,” he said. “And money for horses.”
He pressed his lips together tightly, as if debating whether to speak further.
“I have been in contact with our emperor. He sends his blessings and concern about your injuries. You have earned a special place in his heart. You bring honor upon his name, Alexandrov.”
I almost wept at these words but controlled myself. Despite my throbbing leg it was my heart that I felt, a deep warmth expanding in my chest.
“Go with God! If you should ever need anything, write directly to me and me only. I’ll do all in my power to help you. Farewell, my friend.”
My friend!
The great Kutuzov, commander in chief of all Russian armies, embraced me with the tenderness of a father.
From General Kutuzov’s embrace to my father’s was a journey of a week. Because I traveled under a courier’s orders, the coach drivers galloped their horses from post station to post station. The crimson stripes of my uniform and the whispered name of Kutuzov resulted in a jolting ride, as I muffled my cries of pain.
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