Twelve (41 page)

Instead, she was simply meek. She could have goaded me into chasing west after either the French or the two surviving Oprichniki, or she could have begged me to stay with her in Moscow. As it was, I stayed, but not because she begged – she hardly spoke at all. The excuse for staying was my wounded arm, but it was well on the mend and I had ridden into battle with worse injuries. The reason for staying was fear.

Margarita's funeral took place three days after her death. She proved to have many friends and acquaintances who had taken the time out of their lives to attend, though few spoke to one another – particularly the men. Of the nine uniformed officers who attended, I was surprised to see that four outranked me. What was truly remarkable was that Margarita should have a funeral at all. The fires in Moscow had not killed many, but subsequent starvation had eradicated thousands, both native and invader. Most were still to be hauled into mass graves. From what I could gather, it was Pyetr Pyetrovich who had paid for the ceremony. His diligence in looking after his property now proved to stretch beyond simple good business.

Most significantly, the funeral marked a turning point in Domnikiia's mood. Having bid a formal farewell to her friend and colleague, some hints of her former charm began to re-emerge. Even so, the memory of her at her lowest always haunted me.

A few days later, as we sat in my rooms at the inn, she made an announcement.

'I'm going to get a job.'

'You have a job – or you will when Pyetr Pyetrovich reopens,' I told her. It sounded odd even as I spoke. Most men in my position would be delighted for their mistress to be giving up such a profession, but I had grown used to it.

'I can't go back there. What happened to Margarita . . . Well, even if it hadn't been Iuda, it could have been someone else. It could happen to me one day.'

'Will Pyetr Pyetrovich let you leave?' I was not trying to place obstacles in her way, but it must have come across as such.

'If he doesn't, he'll have you to answer to.'

I went over and kissed her cheek. 'He certainly will.' I sat down beside her. 'So what will you do?'

'I could work in a shop, or go into service.'

'I might know people who would take you on as a maid.'

'Here or in Petersburg?'

'Some here; mostly in Petersburg though.'

'I'd prefer Moscow,' she replied. I'd prefer you in Moscow too, I thought, but didn't say it.

'On the other hand,' she asked thoughtfully, 'wouldn't your wife like a new maid?'

A momentary image of the convenience of such an arrangement was quickly banished by the unending riskiness of its reality. A wife in one city and a mistress in another was a comfortable arrangement. To have both in the same city would add spice. To have both in the same household was the stuff of Molière. It could never be. I knew she would understand that in the long run, but in her present mood a blunt refusal could be damaging.

'Wouldn't you like that?' she went on. Still I could find no response to give to her. '
Prostak
,' she murmured softly.

It was a word that one heard a lot in the army, especially among card-players; an insult that they applied to anyone who was an easy mark.

'I beg your pardon,' I said with mock offence.

'You heard,' she replied. I don't know whether she had been trying to trick me all along, or whether this was just to save us both embarrassment. Either way, it was a joy to hear her speak again with that easy impertinence. 'I'm not surprised Iuda found it so easy to fool you,' she added slyly.

Sometimes her humour could be less of a joy.

'Captain Danilov!'

I had just walked out the door of the inn. It was a week now since Margarita's death; a month since Bonaparte's departure. Snow lay thickly on the ground. I turned my head to see where the call had come from.

I smiled broadly, recognizing the familiar face that emerged from a doorway across the street. It was Natalia.

She ran over to hug me. I held her tightly for a few moments, clinging to her as the only person in my world who had not become terrifyingly unfamiliar over the past days and weeks.

'And how are you, my dear Natasha?' I asked.

'I'm good. Well, better than when you last saw us. We have a roof over us. Father has work. What about you?'

'I'm well – a little war weary. I meant to come and see you.'

We walked along the street as we talked, as Muscovites habitually do in winter, avoiding the cold that would penetrate our bones if we stayed still.

'That's all right,' she said. 'Captain Petrenko said you'd be busy fighting the French.'

'You've seen Dmitry?' I asked, surprised that he had been in Moscow.

She nodded. 'He said he's going after them too.'

'After the French?'

'No, after the English,' she said with heavy sarcasm. And why not? She had no reason to suspect that Dmitry or I had any enemy other than Bonaparte.

'When did you see him?'

'Um . . . five days ago.'

'How was he?'

'Like you – exhausted, but he still carried on.' I wondered if this was meant as a jibe at me. 'I told him not to go – said the French would leave without his help. But he said he owed it to you. Did you make him go?'

'Not on purpose.'

'Are you going to go after him?'

I thought for a while, but with no conclusion. 'I don't know,' I told her.

'Then today, I got a letter from him,' she continued. I was taken aback by the fact that a girl of her status could even read, but the possibility of news from Dmitry was far more consuming.

'What did he say?' I asked urgently.

'That's between him and me,' she replied, with a proud smirk. 'But he did enclose this for you.' She handed me a small envelope. 'He said it was safer than sending it to you. Does that mean there are still French spies about?'

I looked at the package in my hands. The word 'Aleksei' in Dmitry's hand was all that was written on the outside. It was very thin – it might only contain a single sheet, but I was desperate to read it.

'Do you think?' asked Natalia.

'Think what?'

'That there are still French spies in Moscow.'

'Probably not,' I said distractedly. 'But Dmitry is always cautious.'

'You want to read that, don't you?'

I nodded.

'I thought you would. That's why I brought it straight here. I'll let you get on with it.'

'Thank you,' I said with a smile. I kissed her hand and said goodbye.

'Will you come and visit us?' she asked.

'Of course.'

'That's what Mitka said.'

'Then that's what he'll do.' And that was one thing concerning Dmitry of which I felt sure.

I opened the letter as soon as I got back to the inn. It was dated the third of November, three days previously, and was typically succinct.

Aleksei,

I think I have tracked down Iuda and Foma. They have infiltrated the French army and are retreating with them. While my every instinct is to leave them to it, I know you will disagree, and I think it is time that I deferred to you on this. I am staying in Smolensk, at the hostelry by the Dnieper where we stayed last time we were here (
8). Please join me here with all speed,

Your friend and comrade,

Dmitry Fetyukovich Petrenko.

I no longer had the excuse of my arm to keep me in Moscow – it had almost healed. I no longer had the excuse of not knowing where I should go – Dmitry's letter told me. There was no way that I could avoid setting out once again, nor did I want to.

I showed the letter to Domnikiia. She read it swiftly. 'How long do you think it will take?' she asked.

'Who says I'm going?'

She pulled a face to tell me that I was fooling her no more than I was fooling myself. My fear required excuses, and the letter left me with none.

'You think I should go, after all Dmitry's done?' I asked her.

'No, but you think you should.'

'And you don't mind?'

'Would it make any odds if I did?' She was probably right.

I rushed downstairs and ordered a horse to be prepared, then returned and began to pack, with Domnikiia's help. I was soon ready. I wrote down a list of names of people that I knew in Moscow who might employ her, along with a hasty letter of recommendation. I held both her hands as I stood at the doorway. It suddenly felt more like
adieu
than
au revoir
.

'You'll have a job by the time I get back,' I told her.

'Maybe,' she said quietly, then she gazed intently into my eyes. 'Please don't go, Lyosha,' she implored. I considered for a moment, but no longer than that.

'I have to.'

She smirked. 'You see,' she said. 'No odds whatsoever. You're so easy, Lyosha, you
prostak
.'

I smiled broadly and embraced her tightly.

'I
will
be back,' I whispered.

I went out into the winter street, mounted my horse and set off westwards once again, this time in pursuit not of the French, but of the last two remaining Oprichniki.

T
HE SMOLENSK ROAD WAS SCARCELY RECOGNIZABLE COMPARED
with when I had last seen it. The hot, hazy warmth of summer had been replaced by a deep blanket of snow. The road itself was well trodden and the snow often gave way to slush and in places even to mud. I too had changed. Twelve weeks before, four of us had set out, confident and comradely, eager to defend our land and trusting of our new allies, the Oprichniki. Now only Dmitry and I were left, and the trust between us was fragile. Vadim and Maksim both lay silent in anonymous graves. The French had come to Moscow and they had gone. Had we or the Oprichniki played any significant part in that? I doubted it. Bonaparte's fate was sealed the moment he stepped across the border from Poland. In the west they simply don't understand how much east there is. Warsaw is a long, long way from Paris. If Bonaparte could get that far, could Moscow be much further? In reality, it's as far from Warsaw as Warsaw is from Paris, and the journey is a hundred times more dangerous.

Along the road were various signs of the devastation brought by the armies that had marched back and forth over the past weeks. In villages along the way, buildings had been destroyed by fire or, sometimes, by simple, brute force. This may have been caused by the French as they advanced, but more likely by the Russians as they retreated – not just the Russian army but also the very Russian peasants who lived in those villages. The policy of destruction that had been so effective in Moscow was also enacted wherever Bonaparte's army chose to march.

Beyond Mozhaysk, a new and horrible feature began to decorate the landscape, increasing by degree with every verst that I covered. Bonaparte's original plan had been to return by a different route from that by which he came, travelling to the south of the main Moscow to Smolensk road. But at Maloyaroslavets, the battle from which the French captain hanging at the crossroads at Kurilovo had fled, General Kutuzov had forced Bonaparte to turn from that path, back to the north. Mozhaysk was where the French had rejoined the main road, and there began the debris of an army in flight.

Horses – French horses – lay dead beside the road in their hundreds. Exhaustion, starvation and the freezing cold might have been to blame for some of them, but many were down simply to the ignorance or laziness of the French blacksmiths. The horses' shoes lacked the three calkins that a Russian smith would have instinctively added in winter to stop the shoe slipping on ice. Once a horse had lost its footing on the ice-covered road, there would have been little that it, or its rider, could do to raise it. I heard later that the starving French soldiers fell upon each stumbling horse even as it struggled hopelessly to regain its footing, hacking it to pieces in order to feed themselves. Only a fraction of the horses' bodies exhibited the kindness of a bullet to the head.

Even so, men succumbed to the same environment as did their mounts. The reason that the bodies only of horses and not men lay abandoned in the snow was probably not so much that men were dying in any few numbers, but that their comrades had made some effort to bury them. As their journey – and, following in their footsteps, my journey – continued, they had begun to forget such sensibilities. The bodies of men lay ever more frequently beside the bodies of fallen horses.

As I passed each body – be it of a man or a horse – a flurry of birds would launch themselves into the air, frightened by my passing. Once I had gone by, they would return to peck at what flesh still remained. Soon after Mozhaysk, I caught sight of huge flocks of crows circling some way in front of me. While the sound of birds may herald hope – the new dawn – the sight of them is so often an indicator that death is nearby. I soon realized that I was approaching the field of Borodino. I had seen little of the main battlefield on the day, though I had heard much of its horror from survivors. But now as I approached, almost three months later, I saw for myself for the first time how great the death toll had been.

There had not been a moment to pause for breath – certainly not for my country – since that battle, and so little effort had been made to clear away the dead; at least, little human effort. Dogs, wolves and scavenging birds had picked what they could from the thousands of bodies, yet still enough remained to make it clear where each man had fallen. The road ran for about eight versts through the battlefield, with the village of Borodino itself marking the mid-point. On either side, the bodies of the dead spread outwards as far as I could see. The French, from what I could see, had at least made some attempt to bury their dead after the battle, but they had not been thorough; many that had been hastily buried had subsequently been disinterred by the heavy rain. It was impossible – not to say repellent – to count, but the carcasses numbered in their tens of thousands. It was as though some extraterrestrial giant had chosen to slap his hand against the surface of the earth at that point, flattening with one blow all those men who stood beneath it. But no such unworldly explanation was needed. Each man that had died here had died in the way that most men die – at the hands of others. I spurred my horse and rode through as quickly as I could. Even beyond the battlefield, there was no let-up in the accompaniment of the dead. Now, though, it was once again not the bodies of those who had died in battle but of those who had died in retreat. It was not worth a debate as to which was more sickening.

From people I spoke to along the way, I learned that it was not just frost and starvation that was killing the retreating French; it was the Russian peasantry as well. When the French passed through a village they were welcomed with open arms, given food and brandy and put into a warm bed, only to have their throats slit or receive a bullet to the head as they slept. I recalled the hanging body of the French captain who had been lynched at Kurilovo. There was no reason that the serfs should have any sympathy for the invaders. Even if they did, they would still follow their master's orders and kill them without pity.

It took me three days to get to Smolensk. Fresh horses and accommodation were not plentiful along the way, but they were sufficient. It had been two weeks since the French had passed along that road. What had been a hostile trail through an unfriendly foreign land for them had, of necessity, become a vital supply line for the Russian forces that pursued them. Horses and victuals that had been moved away from the road during the French advance had surged back in after their retreat, as though Napoleon were Moses leading his army of Israelites across the Red Sea, except that what was drawn away in advance of him and returned behind him would have brought life, not death to his army.

Smolensk was changed in much the same way that Moscow had been – it was ruined and burnt. And whereas Moscow had been freed from French hands after only five weeks, Smolensk had been held for three months. The final days of the occupation had seen a complete breakdown in discipline as the cold, beleaguered, frightened remains of Bonaparte's army had ransacked the city that they passed through in their retreat. There had been less than two weeks for rebuilding to take place. It was in a worse state than I had ever seen Moscow.

I went to the inn from where Dmitry had sent his letter. I had stayed there earlier in the year, but I did not recognize the proprietor. A brief conversation with him revealed that his predecessor, a cousin of his, had been killed in the first French attacks. There was a letter for me from Dmitry, dated two days before.

Aleksei,

Sorry for not staying to wait for you. It's not that I'm impatient or doubt you will come, but I have discovered the precise whereabouts of Foma. He and Iuda had been together, but now I cannot find any trace of Iuda. If I can capture Foma alone, then I may be able to use him as bait to tempt Iuda into the open. If not, I will have at least reduced their numbers by one. In either case, I would appreciate your help. Out here, our list of places to meet has become very sparse. I will try to make it to the farmhouse north of Yurtsevo (U1) and wait there as long as possible.

As ever,

Dmitry.

Yurtsevo was another two or three days' journey to the west. I was cold, tired and saddle-sore. I spent a long, well-earned night in Smolensk before continuing after Dmitry. His plan was at best foolhardy. Capturing Foma might not be impossible, but were
I
to catch him, I would not keep him alive for long enough for Iuda to come to his aid. I would kill him within seconds. Better yet, I would kill him before he even knew I was there. Whatever desire I might once have had to allow these creatures to be aware of their deaths was now lost in the pragmatic expediency of my own fear.

The idea that Iuda would put his own life at any risk for any of his fellows was the most laughable part of Dmitry's scheme. Of all the Oprichniki, Iuda was the least human – the least likely to be swayed by any sense of camaraderie or partnership. But Dmitry had asked for my help, and I had to give it. I had little interest in small fry like Foma, but if he or Dmitry had any clue as to where I might find Iuda, then that would be of help to me.

Early the next day, I set out west once again. The ground was still frozen to iron and the wind still blew a blizzard that would cover with snow anything or anyone that remained unmoving for more than a few minutes. Yurtsevo was only a few versts north of the city of Orsha. The going that far was relatively easy, always downhill along the Dnieper valley, with plenty of places along the way to get a meal and a fresh horse.

The road to the west was still lined with the bodies of horses and men. Many of the men had been stripped of their possessions and even their clothes. I was not chauvinistic enough to believe that such desecration of the French dead could not have been perpetrated by Russian peasants or even by Russian soldiers, but it would have been their fellow Frenchmen who had the first opportunity to plunder the bodies of their fallen comrades, and they too who were in the direst need of extra clothing.

I was in Orsha in two more days, and after resting the night there, I set out on the final leg of my journey, to Yurtsevo. This was no longer a route of well-trodden roads between large, populous towns. When we had drawn up our list of meeting places, we had had little idea whether we would be meeting under the benign reign of Tsar Aleksandr or under the occupation of the invader Bonaparte. Moreover, it had been under a glorious summer sky that we had made our plans. Then the road from Orsha to Yurtsevo would have been a pleasant one through verdant woodland. Had we known the eventual circumstances, we would have chosen to meet by the largest fireplace inside the warmest tavern in Orsha. As it was, we had chosen a place where a man could die in November and be discovered in a state of perfect, frozen preservation the following March. But at least the road was no longer one that had been trod by the French, and so too it was no longer paved with carcasses of horses and of men. Even so, this slight recompense was soon forgotten in the face of the gnawing cold.

I began to doubt whether there was any point in my continuing when the depth of the snow reached up to my knees – and taking into account that I was still mounted on my horse. I had tried dismounting and leading my horse through the great drifts of snow, and for a while we had made swifter progress. But in places the snow was so deep that it would have been above my head. The prospect of me reaching the rendezvous was bleak, and even if I did, I was in grave doubt as to whether Dmitry would have made it there too. On the other hand, I believed that I was now nearer to Yurtsevo than I was to Orsha, and so to advance was the most sensible option.

The snow grew deeper. There were times when the drifts were so high that we had to plough through them like a ship frozen fast in the icy Baltic. The top of the snow was higher than my horse's head and it was only down to the sense of either trust or fear that she held for me that I was able to coax her to walk onwards along a path she could not see. Through half a dozen layers of clothing, the cold bit into me with a carnivorous aggression. How my horse bore it, I cannot tell.

It was after nightfall when I first saw the lights of the village. On any normal night they would have been a beacon to guide us home, but through the blowing snow they were but a glimpse, to be seen one moment and gone the next. Having first seen them, though they then disappeared, I headed towards them. Five minutes later I saw them again, this time to the left and further away. I spurred the horse and she grudgingly turned towards the lights. The wind and snow lashed against the tiny gap between my hat and my collar from which my face peeped out. It would have been more comfortable to be whipped across the eyes than to endure that frozen blast.

It was another ten minutes before I saw the lights of the village again. This time they were closer, but still to the left, at right angles to the direction in which we had been heading. I tried to turn my horse once again, but she would not move. It was no stubbornness on her part, she was simply stuck fast. She tried to neigh, but the sound was muffled by the insinuating snow that filled her mouth and nostrils. I dismounted and found that I could no longer see the village lights. I was in a snowdrift of which the top was way above my head. I scrabbled through the mountain of snow before me, tearing out handful after handful and casting them aside, but new snow built up far, far more quickly than I could disperse it. Soon, I could move neither my legs nor my hands. With each movement I made, the snow froze even harder to ice and tightened its grip upon me. I would be moving no further that night, and if I did not move that night, I would never move anywhere again. With hope gone, the cold seemed to double in its intensity, and I knew that I would quickly succumb.

I chose in my last moments to turn my mind to pleasant things. Images of my wife and my son came to me, but were quickly dismissed by thoughts of Domnikiia. My mind's eye became detached from my body and flew back to Moscow to observe her. It dwelt on her large eyes, her lips, her pale earlobes. I observed her closely, though she was unaware of my presence. I brought to mind the chatter of her voice, and even though I could make out no individual word, the sound of it was a perfect rendition of the real Domnikiia. It would have been hard to discover a more contented frame of mind in which to die.