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

by Linda Lafferty

  Then word came that the Duke of Wellington and General Blucher of Prussia had defeated Napoleon at Waterloo.

  The hundred-day war had ended.

  And instead of sorrow at missing action and a chance for new glory, I felt only relief. Relief so deep it was almost painful.

  I was given leave to spend time with my uncle in St. Petersburg. I attended a concert at the Philharmonic Hall. The auditorium was filled with society women all dressed in their finest. I loved to inspect their gowns made of silk, flowered embroidery, taffeta, deep plush velvets. They were fine birds indeed, but my uhlan officer’s jacket was far more admirable. I would not have traded it for the world!

  As I studied the women around me, I noticed one particularly gaunt and swarthy face, her eyes luminous with intelligence and character. Although she was dressed in fine lavender silks and a rose beret, I knew instantly that woman’s skin had seen nature’s forces: wind, storms, sun. This was no ordinary lady.

  I whispered to an uhlan captain who was sitting beside me. “See the woman seated next to General Khrapovitsky.”

  “You mean his wife?”

  “Ah! Is she the woman who rode beside him—”

  “Into Paris? Yes, she fought in the war dressed as a page and received a medal for the taking of Paris. There are not many like that one!”

  I felt a prick at my pride.

  “I hear that there was another,” I said. “One who fought since the beginning—”

  “Oh, that one. Nadezhda Durova,” he said. “No, she died. She couldn’t take the hardship.”

  I had died? I couldn’t take the hardship of battle!

  “I see that you don’t believe me,” said my companion. “Well, consider. Madame Khrapovitsky there had her husband to look out for her. That young Nadezhda Durova joined the army and fought at Guttstadt, Heilsberg, Smolensk. Even Borodino. And she was all alone, what can you expect? At least Madame Khrapovitsky was a page riding beside her husband, a general. Durova was on her own. Of course she couldn’t last.”

  As I considered my growing legend—and my demise—I began to think of my father, alone at home. My sisters had married, and my brother was an officer in the army.

  I was a legend but a ghost already.

  A sudden feeling for my roots, for my old family home, seized me.

  Not long after that evening, I announced my intention to leave the army.

  Chapter 63

  St. Petersburg

  1816–1825

  In the first years after the Patriotic War of 1812, Alexander enjoyed the adoration of the Russian people, but that adoration went to his head.

  He did not heed his long-ago tutor’s lessons about reform and freedom. Alexander was finished with his Committee of Friends. His faithful counselor Adam Czartoryski never returned to Russia. The Tsar, who had defeated Napoleon, lost the strength to rule. Exhausted, he tossed the reins of power into the unworthy hands of Count Arakcheyev, who changed the tenor of Alexander’s government, billeting soldiers in Russian homes, crushing freedoms, and exiling or imprisoning opposition.

  The despotic tone of government was mirrored in Poland, under the rough hand of Alexander’s brother, Grand Duke Constantine.

  Adam Czartoryski wrote: “My Lord, the Grand Duke Constantine seems to have acquired a hatred for this country and everything that goes with it. An enemy could not do more harm to Your Imperial Majesty.”

  But the Tsar did not bother to write back. Alexander had ceased to care. His beloved sister Ekaterina had succumbed to a vicious infection of the skin and finally pneumonia. She died in 1819.

  Alexander grieved mightily. He developed the same wretched skin infection as his sister, on his left leg. He spent more and more time either traveling or hidden away from Russian society. Finally, sensing his own desperation, he decided to go back to the starets Sevastianov to seek his advice.

  Entering the starets’s hovel, Tsar Alexander recognized the earthy smells from long ago as he ducked his head to avoid brushing against the bundles of dried flowers and herbs that hung from the low ceiling.

  The mystic Sevastianov had aged mightily since the year of the Battle of Austerlitz. The holy man stared at the Tsar with milky eyes, unseeing. He waved his hand in greeting, motioning to a chair.

  “Your Majesty, approach. Please sit next to me,” the starets croaked. “Forgive me for not rising—I would only topple over. I have a young boy who attends me but I have dismissed him for our meeting.”

  “Thank you for receiving me in private, Sevastianov.”

  “It is my great pleasure, Your Majesty. I’ve waited for you to return for seventeen years. They tell me you defeated Napoleon.”

  This man speaks of Napoleon as if he were of as little consequence as a weed in a cucumber patch.

  “Yes, he is imprisoned now in the middle of the Atlantic,” said Alexander. “Thousands of miles of salt water on either side of him. He shall not be raising an army ever again.”

  “That is good.”

  “You were right, Sevastianov, that I would not defeat him right away,” said Alexander. “In 1805. How did you know?”

  The holy man shrugged. “I know what I know. It is not for me to question. Why do you return to me, Tsar?”

  Alexander hesitated. He looked away from the starets’s eyes even though he knew the man was blind.

  “I am lost, Starets,” said Alexander. “I was miscast as tsar. A tsar must rule with an iron fist and I have not that character.”

  Sevastianov fingered the ends of his long gray beard.

  “Your Majesty, did you follow my advice? Did you surround yourself with good advisors?”

  Alexander again looked away from the sightless eyes and up at the dried flowers and berries hanging from the roof.

  “I did for a time …”

  “And now?”

  “I … I fear I have chosen poorly. I am surrounded by threats, assassins, and plots! My minister Alexei Arakcheyev snuffs out the spark of rebellion. But he is harsh, I know. His hand is heavy on the people.”

  The starets nodded, moving his lips in silence.

  “But does this Alexei Arakcheyev represent your will?” he asked after a few moments.

  Alexander ran his hand over his face.

  “I never wanted to oppress my people. But the Tsar of all the Russias must wield an iron hammer over dissenters.”

  Sevastianov ran a pale tongue over his wrinkled lips.

  “Are you that iron hammer?” he asked.

  “No, Sevastianov. I am not.”

  “But you assign ministers who have the stomach for despotism.”

  Alexander frowned.

  “I suppose I am emulating my ancestors—”

  “Your father?”

  Alexander nodded.

  He reached around his neck and withdrew a small cloth bag attached to a leather cord. Untying the knotted sack, he extracted a scrap of paper.

  “This is the coded note my father wrote the night he was murdered,” Alexander said, placing the paper into the starets’s hands. “I asked you to decipher it before and you could not. Can you try again now?”

  “But Your Majesty! I am blind.”

  “I know. I thought by the holy spirit …”

  “There are some things that are simply beyond even a starets’s power,” said Sevastianov. He touched the paper with his fingertips.

  “It is very creased,” he said. “It has been folded and unfolded many times.”

  “I cannot help but read it over and over again,” said Alexander. “It is a mystery that haunts me.”

  “It haunts you? Why?”

  Alexander dropped his gaze from the starets’s eyes staring blindly at him.

  “I—I don’t know. It could have been my father’s last message before he was murdered. What was he trying to tell me? Or say about me?”

  The starets reached out and handed back the scrap of paper.

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I still think you are the only one still
living who could possibly answer that question.”

  Alexander folded the paper, tucking it back into the bag. He stifled a great sob.

  “I promised God that if I could defeat Napoleon, I would be a servant of his will. But what am I to do? Throw the Romanov family, the scepter, and the future of Russia to these hungry wolves? The men who thirst for my power would destroy our country, snarling and ripping at one another’s throats. There would be no democracy, only anarchy until another strong man emerged, worse than any Romanov.”

  “Your Majesty, you say you promised to serve God’s will. Have you found him in St. Petersburg? In the battles against Napoleon?”

  Alexander threw up his hands. “I have sought spiritual guidance everywhere. I’ve studied the Quakers, the Masons, mystics …”

  Sevastianov grunted.

  “I founded the Bible Society,” offered Alexander.

  “I have heard of your Bible Society. Pietism, Illuminism, Martinism … and Freemasonry—all cults.”

  “I explore all avenues to find God,” said Alexander.

  The starets drew a deep breath. When he expelled the air, Alexander heard the rattle of age from his throat and lungs.

  “Your Majesty,” said Sevastianov. “Have you considered finding God on your own?”

  Alexander cocked his head, leaning toward Sevastianov with his good ear. “On my own?”

  “Without spiritual leaders or their philosophies. Dedicate yourself to God in the purest form, approach him as the poorest pilgrim.”

  “Like you?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “But I am Tsar of all Russia! I can’t live like you as a hermit. I have the gravest responsibilities.”

  “Yet you made a promise to the Almighty. Is there no higher purpose?”

  Alexander did not reply. In the silence he listened to the call of the seagulls over the Gulf of Finland.

  That night Tsar Alexander wrote to the Prince of Orange, husband of his youngest sister, Anna Pavlovna. Since the death of his sister Ekaterina his brother-in-law had become his new confidant:

  I shall forsake the throne when I reach fifty. I know myself well enough to feel that by then I shall no longer have the physical and mental strength to govern my vast empire. Nicholas is a reasonable and comprehending person, the right man to guide Russia down the right path. On the day of his coronation I shall be among the crowd at the foot of the great stairs of honor of the Kremlin, and I shall be among the first to shout, “Hurrah!”

  A few nights later while dining with his younger brother Grand Duke Nicholas and his wife, Alexandra Feodorovna, Alexander said, “Nicholas, you must prepare yourself to become tsar.”

  Nicholas wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Whatever do you mean, Your Majesty? After your reign, Constantine is next in line for the throne.”

  “We have discussed the matter,” said Alexander. “Should I abdicate, Constantine will follow suit. He has a morganatic marriage to the Polish Joanna Grudzinska—he cannot produce a legitimate heir. You will inherit the throne. Besides, Constantine is not suited to the task. His harsh conduct in Poland brings no honor to the Romanov name.”

  “The Poles need an iron hammer over their heads!” said Nicholas. “Constantine does what is needed.”

  An iron hammer. Is that truly what they need? It seems to be what everyone clamors for, this blasted hammer!

  Alexander sighed. “You will be the next tsar. And someday soon.” The Tsar saw a minute movement across the table from him. The Grand Duchess Alexandra Feodorovna’s eyes widened.

  “Ah, my dear sister-in-law!” said Alexander. “Do not worry. I am in fine health. But your husband must prepare for the role of tsar. I shall cheer him from the throngs as you pass by in the imperial coach.”

  The grand duchess was speechless.

  As they left the dining room, Alexandra Feodorovna whispered to her husband, “He speaks as if he will abdicate. And soon.”

  Nicholas gazed up at the gilded moldings of the ceilings and the magnificent spill of the Jordan Staircase illuminated by hundred of candles.

  “My brother the Tsar renounced the throne even before he was given it,” he said. “I wonder what he means to do.”

  In the first week of November 1824, the Baltic Sea churned with hurricane-force winds. The storm beset St. Petersburg from the southwest, driving the ocean water up the Neva River and causing a flood of catastrophic proportions. The entire city was deluged, drowning more than five hundred people in a little over five hours. Brave souls rowed boats in the tempest, trying to save the desperate in every part of the city.

  Alexander and the royal family took refuge in the highest level of the Winter Palace. Below them they saw animal carcasses, bloated human bodies, houses, timbers, and bridges carried swiftly away in the sea that rose inch by inch, foot by foot.

  When the waters finally subsided, a cemetery cross carried across the Neva wedged itself directly in front of the Winter Palace.

  Alexander looked down at it from the third floor.

  “It is a sign,” he said to Elizabeth.

  Alexander descended the sweeping Jordan Staircase, the most stunning hallmark of the palace, now littered with thick mud and debris. The rose-colored marble was ringed with watermarks and the alabaster statues of Wisdom and Justice laced with filth.

  What harbingers are these? How fares the rest of my capital?

  The Tsar insisted on inspecting the city immediately to survey the destruction.

  What met his senses was the low wail of despair, the sobs and laments of those who had lost their loved ones. All St. Petersburg moaned, the howl permeating even the Tsar’s one deaf ear.

  He clapped a handkerchief over his nose and mouth, the stench of decay overwhelming him. He remembered that a similar flood had struck the city in 1777—the year of his birth.

  Alexander stepped out of his carriage at the beginning of Nevsky Prospekt. His cheeks were wet with tears as he stood and listened to the mourning of St. Petersburg.

  The Tsar of all Russia sobbed. The footmen and escorts stood motionless, not knowing what to do.

  An old man hobbled by and seeing the Tsar’s tears, spoke to him.

  “God is punishing us for our sins!”

  Alexander looked at the old man and shook his head.

  “No, Grandfather. Not for our sins. For mine!”

  Alexander turned away, his head in his hands.

  While Alexander was in good health, the Tsarina Elizabeth was not. She had breathing troubles that perplexed her physicians. As her condition worsened her doctors recommended that the tsarina spend the winter in a warmer climate. Italy was suggested.

  Elizabeth remembered wistfully how Adam Czartoryski had loved Italy.

  But Alexander insisted that his wife could not travel without him—and he could not leave Russia. There were rumors of a coup. Alexander could not risk traveling beyond the Russian borders.

  “No,” he said to her doctors. “She must remain with me for the winter.”

  “Your Majesty,” said the senior member of the team. “The tsarina has an acute lung condition. She needs a drier, warmer climate. The weather of St. Petersburg will kill her!”

  “Find a locale within Russia. In my vast empire, there must be some place that is suitable.”

  After considerable consultation, the physicians suggested Crimea.

  But the next day, Alexander countered with a much more obscure location, the southern port of Taganrog, close to Crimea but on the Sea of Azov rather than the Black Sea. Taganrog was a three-week journey by coach from St. Petersburg.

  “There is nothing in Taganrog, your majesty!” said Doctor Wylie, the chief physician. “You will not have the luxuries—not even the necessities!—that Crimea would offer. Taganrog is a humble port with rough seas. Better to travel a little further to Crimea.”

  “Taganrog is where the tsarina and I shall reside for the winter. It is quiet and isolated. Make preparations immediately.”

  That ni
ght Alexander spoke with his wife.

  “This will be a second honeymoon for us, my love. We shall take simple quarters—maybe a half dozen rooms for your apartment, a few larger rooms for my own. We shall walk the coastline, my dear, and remember our youth.”

  Elizabeth began to answer but her reply was stifled by a fit of coughing.

  “Oh!” she managed to say. “Alexander!”

  He held his wife’s hand and looked at her tenderly until the spasm of coughing passed.

  What a fool I have been all my life! If she were to die I would be lost. And yet, I have not yet told her my plan. What she will think when she hears it!

  “Elise, my love. I have thought long and hard about my reign and about Russia herself.”

  “What, dearest?” she said. “Tell me.”

  “Russia—Russians crave a strong man. The nation is an anvil, the Tsar is the hammer. They’d rather be under a blunt force than the yielding hand of an enlightened leader.”

  Elise wrinkled her soft brow.

  “I think you are wrong, Alexander.”

  “Wrong?”

  “The Russians may behave as if they crave a hammer because history has given them no choice. But there will always be those who know the difference. And they will always hunger for a government that promotes freedom and never stop searching until they find it.”

  Alexander frowned.

  “Do you think I do wrong by appointing Count Arakcheyev as minister?”

  “Yes,” said Elise. “Of course I do! He is too much like your father—brutal and militaristic.”

  “He keeps men in line.”

  “In line? Is that all that is required of a minister?”

  “He crushes opposition,” argued Alexander.

  “Listen to yourself, Alexander!” said Elizabeth. “Can’t you hear? Crush! Might makes right. Arakcheyev is not of the caliber of the fine men who have held similar positions in the past.”

  “You are thinking of Adam Czartoryski, aren’t you?” said Alexander, his eyes intense in the dimming light of dusk.

  “Da,” she said, sighing. “Adam gave good advice whether you liked it or not. Arakcheyev is a sycophant and a tyrant.”

  “I was persuaded by my advisors he was what Russia needed,” said Alexander, walking to the window. He looked out over the Neva, a deep blue in the late summer sun. Young men were fishing in small boats, white seagulls circling their heads, hoping for a taste of the catch.