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

carriage window. The flank Hussar was always at my father’s side either in quarters or during a march, but now I was his chief duty. He was assigned my care and education, even my swaddling and feedings.
    As a baby I rocked along in open wagons, gazing up at the sky and the green shimmering leaves of the birches as they swished over my head. As I grew older, Astakhov would lift me from my cradle, swing me in front of him on the pommel of his saddle, and point out the faults of other soldiers’ riding and the virtues of horses that rode rhythmically in formation. The motion of the horse at a walk lulled me to sleep. I would awake in a cradle mounted in a flat wagon, nestled against the sweet-smelling bags of grain.
    Astakhov would bring me to the squadron’s stables, setting me up on horses’ bare backs. He gave me his unloaded pistol as a toy, wrapping my baby hands around the butt even before I had the strength to lift it. He brandished his gleaming sword, slicing the air with the blade while I clapped my hands in joy.
    At night my bed was near the campfire. The crackling of the burning wood accompanied the music of the balalaika, the instrument of the Russian heart. Vodka-soaked soldiers’ voices singing ancient ballads mingled with the smoke, rising into the starry sky. This was my lullaby.
    Astakhov would wait until I fell asleep to bring me into the tents or temporary quarters. If I caught sight of my mother I would howl, clinging to his neck.
    As I grew older Astakhov taught me drill commands and maneuvers. I ran through the fields at a mock gallop on an imaginary horse, executing charges against an invisible enemy. I tossed hay with a miniature pitchfork Astakhov whittled for me, and I grained the horses when we could procure oats, wheat, rye. Sometimes we fed them roasted buckwheat.
    “Grain can sustain a horse but it makes him hot and difficult to ride. Oats are as good as gold,” said my tutor. “But a Russian horse must learn to live on whatever Mother Earth offers, especially in war. Kasha sustains our soldiers—it can sustain horseflesh as well. Roof thatch and birch bark will do when there is nothing else. But grains—every kernel is precious in nourishing a warhorse.”
    I thought of grains as coins of gold, the currency of life. I was eager to feed the squadron’s mounts. I loved the silky slide of oats between my fingers, the dry rustle they made in the bucket as they spilled against the side.
    My father smiled when he saw me in the stables, taking my lessons with Astakhov. It was Astakhov who taught me to read and write, using a rough slate and a stub of chalk. As I grew older, I was eager to decipher the cavalry manuals and learn more about horsemanship and battles.
    “She knows military maneuvers as well as I,” Astakhov told my father.
    “Dry fare for a little girl,” said my father. “But if she reads, good.”
    “ Horosho , Nadya,” Papa said, chucking me under the chin with his crooked finger.
    My mother was not amused, however, when I returned to our quarters for visits. I galloped down the hall and into the parlor, swinging a stick saber. “Charge!” I screamed, attacking the invisible Turks and other Ottoman infidels who disguised themselves brilliantly as sofa and chairs.
    “Stop that this instant, Nadezhda!” said my mother. She pulled me by the ear to my room, making me stand in the corner until my father returned home at supper time.
    “Her wild antics weaken my heart,” she told my father. “I simply cannot abide her unruly nature.”
    Send her away. Pick her or me. I could feel her unspoken demand on my father.
    By the time I was two she was pregnant again, and—desperate to produce a son—she continued to have baby daughters every two years or so, until my brother Vasily’s birth in 1799. My sisters were more obliging and feminine than I. They gave great comfort to my mother, who could not tolerate me as an infant—even less so when I grew into a wild young