Susan Johnson (39 page)
Authors: Taboo (St. John-Duras)
Tsar Paul also had a damaging effect on the army. Half-mad, he indulged his interest in military matters by molding the Russian army into his image of the Prussian army. In keeping with this picture-book idea, Paul introduced his own manual, a gathering of outworn precepts culled from an inferior textbook from Frederick the Great’s time. Officers who were experienced and competent at staff work were transferred to regimental duties and inexperienced men installed in their places. Men with no gift for training soldiers but good managers of parade-ground displays were given command of regiments. During his short reign 333 generals and 2,261 officers lost their commissions. Obedience and observance of regulations were regarded as most important. At parades Paul would sentence men to floggings and reduce officers and noncommissioned officers to the ranks on the spot; one day a whole regiment, having failed to please the tsar, was given this order at the end of the parade:
“Direction: straight ahead! To Siberia—march!” Officers took to carrying enough money on their persons to cover the cost of a journey to Siberia should they be sent to exile from the parade ground.
This atmosphere of intimidation and fear did little to encourage officer initiative.
19.
Regardless of the conflicting foreign and native influences in the Russian military establishment, the common soldier changed little; he just fought for a different sovereign. Always noted for his tenacity and ability to suffer hardships, in the attack he was fearless and never intimidated by casualties. It has been claimed that the Russian soldier lacked instruction in how to retreat, and though this is untrue, the Russians always fought best with their backs to the wall. Until late in the Napoleonic Wars the Russians fought much as their grandfathers had done, and although new regulations tried to modernize tactics, most commanders continued to rely on the solid column and the bayonet. The preferred method of warfare (and Suvorov’s favorite) was “One must attack!!! Cold arms—bayonets and sabers!” And wave after wave of soldiers were sent forward, bayonets drawn.
20.
Massena sent three telegrams from Zurich to the Directory informing them of the results of the battle.
On September 25: “I have passed the Limmat at Dietikon, we are at the gates of Zurich.”
September 26: “The army entered Zurich in force at two o’clock at night. General Soult’s division has reached the Linth between the lakes of Zurich and Wallenstadt. The Russian and Austrian armies are in complete rout. I’m pursuing them.”
September 28: “Both the Russian and Austrian armies are totally destroyed, the Russians went through Thur, we are pursuing the Austrian corps and the Bavarians who had just joined them in the number of 8,000. General Hotze was killed on the battle field; the baggage train, six flags, plus 100 pieces of artillery are in our possession. The losses in the two armies in dead, wounded and prisoners, among which are 6,000 wounded that were abandoned, are more than 20,000 men. Three Russian generals are in our possession.
General Suvorov in person attacked my right, I’m marching on him.”
21.
Suvorov had made good progress in his march into Switzerland and he hoped to reach Altdorf by September 14. But Lecourbe and the Devil’s Bridge were in the way.
Six miles along the treeless Usern Valley was the Urnerloch, a tunnel over two hundred yards long with a clearance of less than five feet across. Four hundred yards beyond it, the Reuss, falling in a foaming torrent, raged seventy-five feet below the terribly exposed Devil’s Bridge, beyond which towered a sheer and rocky wall.
On the morning of the fourteenth, Suvorov’s main force joined Rosenberg and the advance guard proceeded down the Usern dale. There they faced one perpendicular stone mountain standing like a wall, in the middle of which was a narrow opening made by nature, called the Devil’s Hole, leading to the Devil’s Bridge, and continuing for about seven hundred feet into the mountain. A French gun at the point of exit swept the tunnel. Soon it was choked with the bodies of dead and dying men. No one could survive the passage of those few feet between the close and dripping walls in the face of that gun. But the men tried, and besides those who fell in the tunnel during the pileup that ensued, there were others who were pushed over the precipice near the entrance to it. Eventually a flanking party of three hundred under Colonel Trubnikov somehow traversed the mountain overhead and fell upon the French left. Miloradovich rushed some men through the tunnel. Lecourbe immediately called back his men from the right bank of the Reuss. The gun was thrown down into the river and they withdrew over the Devil’s Bridge, breaking it behind them.
Meanwhile two hundred fusiliers had descended the fall to the left, and when a fordable point had been found, a battalion was sent down after them to try to get to the French rear. More Russians groped their way hand in hand through the cavern of the Urnerloch while the French sharpshooters perched on the heights above the broken Devil’s Bridge took aim as they massed between the tunnel and the bridge. The Russians tried desperately to rush the bridge. But it was impossible. Murderous fire sent a constant
succession of men hurtling down into the teeming waters of the Reuss and the steep slope up to the Urnerloch behind them was soon covered with bodies.
22.
Suvorov’s retreat through the mountains was an unbelievable nightmare.
As the Russian soldiers climbed up to a height level with the clouds, the snow changed into mounds of ice embedded in snowdrifts. Each step on the treacherous cliffs could be one’s last. The thinning lines stretched for miles. There was no order, no discipline. Each man walked where he would, choosing his path according to his own judgment. The weakest fell down and didn’t get up; those wanting to rest sat down on the icy slopes and surrendered themselves to death. The injured were abandoned. The marchers were assailed by a cold and hostile wind and beating rain, which froze on them. Some were so borne down by ice they could hardly move. There was no shelter, nothing with which to light a fire. A blizzard obliterated the track, a footprint disappearing in the snow within seconds. Men crawled on or stumbled forward hand in hand. A mounted officer, trying to find the way, suddenly disappeared, swallowed up together with his horse by a crevasse.
Of the 3,000 men that began the retreat, no more than 1,800 were left after the passage over the Alps.
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Susan Johnson, award-winning author of nationally bestselling novels, lives in the country near North Branch, Minnesota. A former art historian, she considers the life of a writer the best of all possible worlds.
Researching her novels takes her to past and distant places, and bringing characters to life allows her imagination full rein, while the creative process offers occasional fascinating glimpses into complicated machinery of the mind.
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AN IMPOSING BUTLER
ushered them into Frederic Leighton’s studio, despite the inconvenient hour and the artist’s custom of receiving by appointment only, and despite the fact that the artist was working frantically because he was fast losing the sun. Although perhaps a man like Leighton was never actually frantic, his sensibilities opposed to such plebeian feelings. Ever conscious of his wealth and position, particularly now that he’d been knighted, he cultivated friendships in the aristocracy, as his butler well knew.
The room was enormous, with rich cornices, piers, friezes of gold, marble, enamel, and mosaics, all color and movement, opulence and luxury. Elaborate bookshelves lined one wall, two huge Moorish arches soared overhead, stained-glass windows of an oriental design were set into the eastern wall, but the north windows under which the artist worked were tall, iron-framed, utilitarian.
Leighton turned from his easel as they entered and greeted them with a smooth urbanity, casting aside his frenzied air with ease, recognizing George Howard with a personal comment and his two male companions with a cultivated grace.
Lord Ranelagh hardly took notice of their host, for his
gaze was fixed on Leighton’s current work—a female nude in a provocative pose, her diaphanous robe lifted over her head. “Very nice, Sir Frederick,” he said with a faint nod in the direction of the easel. “The lady’s coloring is particularly fine.”
“As is the lady. I’m fortunate she dabbles in the arts.”
“She lives in London?”
“Some of the time. I could introduce you if you like.”
“No, you may not, Frederick. I’m here incognito for this scandalous painting.” A lady’s amused voice came from the right, and a moment later Alexandra Ionides emerged from behind a tapestry screen. She was dressed in dark blue silk that set off her pale skin to perfection; the front of the gown was partially open, but her silken flesh quickly disappeared from sight as she closed three sparkling gemstone clasps.
“It’s you,” Ranelagh softly exclaimed.
Her eyes were huge, the deepest purple, and her surprise was genuine. “I beg your pardon?”
“Alex, allow me to introduce Viscount Ranelagh,” Leighton said. “My lord, Alexandra Ionides, the Dowager Countess of St. Albans and Mrs. Courts.”
“
Mrs
. Courts?”
“I’m a widow. Both my husbands died.” She always enjoyed saying that—for the reaction it caused, for the pleasure it gave her to watch people’s faces.
“May I ask how they died?” the viscount inquired, speaking to her with a quiet intensity, as though they were alone in the cavernous room.
“Not in their beds, if that’s what you’re thinking.” She knew of Ranelagh, of his reputation, and thought his question either flippant or cheeky.
“I meant … how difficult it must have been, how distressing. I’m a widower.”
“I know.” But she doubted he was distressed. The flighty,
promiscuous Lady Ranelagh had died in a riding accident—and very opportunely, it was said; her husband was about to either kill her or divorce her.
“Would you men like to stay for drinks? Alex and I were just about to sit down for a champagne.” Leighton gestured toward an alcove decorated with various colorful divans. “I reward myself at the end of a workday,” he added with a small deprecating smile.
A bottle of champagne was already on ice atop a Moroccan-style table, and if Alexandra might have wished to refuse, Leighton had made it impossible. Ranelagh was more than willing, Eddie had never turned down a drink in his adult life, and George Howard, like so many men of his class, had considerable leisure time.
Ranelagh seated himself beside Alex, a fact she took note of with mild disdain. She disliked men of his stamp, who only amused themselves in ladies’ beds. It seemed a gross self-indulgence when life offered so much outside the conventional world of aristocratic vice.
He said, “Meeting you this afternoon almost makes me believe in fate. I came here to discover the identity of the exquisite model in Leighton’s Academy painting, and here you are.”
“While I don’t believe in fate at all, Lord Ranelagh, for I came here today with privacy in mind, and here you all are.”
He smiled. “And you’d rather us all to Hades.”
“How astute, my lord.”
He’d never been offered his congé by a woman before and rather than take offense, he was intrigued. Willing females he knew by the score. But one such as this … “Maybe if you came to know us better. Or me better,” he added in a low murmur.
Their conversation was apart from the others, their divan offset slightly from the other bright-hued sofas, and the three
men opposite them were deep in a heated discussion of the best routes through the Atlas Mountains.
“Let me make this clear, Lord Ranelagh, and I hope tactful as well. I’ve been married twice; I’m not a novice in the ways of the world. I take my independence very seriously and I’m averse, to put it in the most temperate terms, to men like you, my lord, who find amusement their raison d’être. So I won’t be getting to know you better. But thank you for the offer.”
Her hair was the most glorious deep auburn, piled atop her head in heavy, silken waves, and he wished nothing more at the moment than to free the ruby pins holding it in place and watch it tumble onto her shoulders. “Perhaps some other time.” He thought he’d never seen such luscious peaches-and-cream skin, nor eyes, like hers.
“There won’t be another time, my lord.”
“If I were a betting man—”
“But you are.” Equal to his reputation as a libertine was his penchant for high-stakes betting. It was the talk of London at the moment, for he’d won fifty thousand on the first race at Ascot yesterday.
He smiled. “It was merely an expression. Do I call you Mrs. Coutts or the Dowager Countess?”
“I prefer my maiden name.”
“Then, Miss Ionides, what I was about to say was that if I were a betting man, I’d lay odds we are about to become good friends.”
“You’re too arrogant, Ranelagh. I’m not eighteen and easily infatuated by a handsome man, even one of your remarkable good looks.”
“While I’m not only fascinated by a woman of your dazzling beauty but intrigued with your unconventional attitude toward female nudity.”
“Because I pose nude, you think me available?”
“So blunt, Miss Ionides.”
“You weren’t interested in taking me to tea, I presume.”
“We’ll do whatever you like,” he replied, the suggestion in his voice so subtle, his virtuosity couldn’t be faulted. And that, of course, was the problem.
“You’ve more than enough ladies in your train, Ranelagh. You won’t miss me.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely sure.”
“A shame.”
“Speak for yourself. I have a full and gratifying life. If you’ll excuse me, Frederick,” she said, addressing her host as she rose to her feet. “I have an appointment elsewhere.”
The viscount had risen to his feet. “May I offer you a ride to your appointment?”
She slowly surveyed him from head to toe, her gaze coming to rest after due deliberation on his amused countenance. “No, you may not.”
“I’m crushed,” he said, grinning.
“But not for long, I’m sure,” she crisply replied, and waving at Leighton and the other men, she walked away.
Everyone followed her progress across the large room and only when she’d disappeared through the high Moorish arch did conversation resume.
“She’s astonishingly beautiful,” George Howard said. “I can see why you have her pose for you.”
“She
deigns
to pose for me,” Leighton corrected. “I’m only grateful.”
“I’m surprised a woman of her magnificence hasn’t married again.”
“She prefers her freedom,” Leighton offered. “Or so she says.”
“From that tone of voice, I’m surmising you’ve propositioned her,” Eddie observed. “And been refused.”
Leighton dipped his handsome leonine head in acknowledgment. “At least I’m in good company, rumor has it. She’s turned down most everyone.”
“Most?” Ranelagh regarded the artist from beneath his long lashes, his lazy sprawl the picture of indolence.
“She has an occasional affair, I’m told.”
“By whom?” Ranelagh’s voice was very soft. “With whom?”
“My butler seems to know. I believe Kemp’s acquainted with Alex’s lady’s maid.”
“With whom is she currently entertaining herself then, pray tell?” The viscount moved from his lounging pose, his gaze suddenly intent.
“No one I know. A young art student for a time.” He shrugged. “A banker she knew through her husband. A priest, someone said.” He shook his head. “Only gossip, you understand. Alex keeps her private life private.”
“And yet she’s willing to pose nude—a blatantly public act.”
“She’s an artist in her own right. She accepts the nude form as separate from societal attitudes.”
“Toward women,” the viscount proposed.
Leighton shrugged again. “I wouldn’t venture a guess on Alex’s cultural politics.”
“You’re wasting your time, Sammy, my boy,” Eddie told Ranelagh, waving his champagne glass toward the door through which Alex had exited. “She’s not going to give you a tumble.”
The viscount’s dark brows rose faintly. “We’ll see.”
“That tone of voice always makes me nervous. The last time you said
We’ll see
, I ended up in a Turkish jail, from which we were freed only because the ambassador was a personal friend of the sultan’s minister. And why you thought
you could get through the phalanx of guards surrounding that harem, I’ll never know.”
“We almost made it.”
“Nearly cost us our lives.”
“You worry too much.”
“While you don’t worry at all.”
“Of course I do. I was worried Lady Duffin’s husband was going to break down the door before we were finished last week.”
“So that’s why Charles won’t speak to you anymore.”
The viscount shrugged. “He never did anyway.”
Alexandra didn’t have another appointment, but feeling the need to talk to someone, she had her driver take her to Lady Ormand’s. This time of day, she’d have to sit through the tedium of tea, but not for long, since Rosalind’s guests would have to leave soon to dress for dinner.
She felt strangely agitated and annoyed that she was agitated and further annoyed that the reason for her troublesome feelings was Viscount Ranelagh.
He was just another man, she firmly told herself, intent on repressing her astonishing reaction to him. She was no longer a missah young girl whose head could be turned by seductive dark eyes and a handsome face. Nor was she some tart who could be bluntly propositioned, as though he had but to nod his perfect head and she would fall into bed with him.
But something remarkable
had
happened when they met, and try as she might to deny his startling sexual magnetism, she was impossibly drawn to him.
Unfortunately, that seductive power was his hallmark; he was known for the carnal eagerness he inspired in females. And she refused to succumb.
Having spent most of her adult life struggling against conformity, trying to find a role outside the societal norms for women of her class,
needing
the independence denied so many females, surely she was strong enough to resist a libertine, no matter how sinfully handsome or celebrated his sexual expertise. Regardless, she’d not slept with anyone since her disastrous affair with Leon.
Reason, perhaps, for her injudicious impulses now.
But after Leon, she’d vowed to be more prudent in her choices.
And Ranelagh would be not only imprudent but—if his conduct at Leighton’s was any evidence—impudent as well.
Inexhaustible in bed, however, if rumor was true, a devilish voice in her head reminded her.
She clasped her hands tightly in her lap, as though she might restrain her carnal urges with so slight a gesture. Impossible of course, so she considered spending a few hours with young Harry, who was always so grateful for her company. But gratitude didn’t have much appeal when images of Ranelagh’s heated gaze filled her brain. Nor did young Harry’s sweetness prevail over the shamelessly bold look in Ranelagh’s eyes.
“No!” she exclaimed, the sound of her voice shocking in the confined space, as was the flagrant extent of her desire.
She desperately needed to speak with Rosalind.
Her friend was always the voice of reason … or at least one of caution to her rash impulses.
But when the last teatime guest had finally departed and the tale of her introduction to Ranelagh was complete, Rosalind said, “You have to admit, he’s the most heavenly man in London.” She shrugged her dainty shoulders. “Or England or the world, for that matter.”
Alex offered her friend a sardonic glance. “Thank you for the discouragement.”
“Forgive me, dear, but he
is
lovely.”
“And he knows it and I don’t wish to become an afternoon of amusement for him.”
“Would you like it better if it were more than an afternoon?”
“No. I would prefer not thinking of him at all. He’s arrogant and brazenly self-assured and no doubt has never been turned down by a woman in his life.”
“So you’re the first.”
“I meant it facetiously.”
“And you’ve come here to have me bolster your good judgment and caution you to reason.”
“Exactly.”
“And will that wise counsel suffice?”
Alex softly exhaled. “Maybe if you’re with me day and night.”
Rosalind’s pale brows rose. “He’s said to have that effect on women.”
“And it annoys me immeasurably that I’m as beguiled as all the mindless women he amuses himself with.”
“You wish your intellect to be in control of your desires.”
“I insist on it.”
“Is it working?”
Alex shoved her teaspoon around on the embroidered linen cloth for a lengthy time before she looked up. “No.”
“So the question becomes—what are you going to do?”
“I absolutely refuse to fall into his arms.” She glared at her friend. “Do you understand? I won’t.”
“Fine. Are there matters of degree then?”
“About what?”
“About falling into his arms. Would you, say, after a certain duration, or never in a million years?”
