“The czar knows the situation in the Caucasus, down to the finest details. He is better informed than you or anyone else as to what is going on there. He knows everything. ‘The necessary measures’—what kind of a phrase is that?”
“General Grabbe needs more resources and his officers more intelligence.”
Kiselyev recognized his own dynamism in his nephew, but this time did not admire it.
“I’d advise you not speak in these terms later on.”
“Uncle, if you only knew what shortcomings I’ve seen with my own eyes, the ignorance and stupidity of some of our own captains!”
“It is not your place to judge your superiors.”
“Our troops are poorly trained, poorly organized, poorly fed, and poorly equipped.”
“What are you talking about? The Russian army is the most powerful in the world. The emperor takes care of his soldiers, he gives them his time, his energy, and his love! He loves you—you, the young—because you are faithful, disciplined, and handsome.”
“Handsome, yes, on the parade ground, no doubt,” Dmitri cut him off. “But this is no parade, and it’s not an ordinary war, but a holy war.”
The count softened. He had gone through the same kind of crisis Dmitri was experiencing. This contrast between the horror of war and the placidity of home. He never should have arranged to bring the boy to see the czar so soon after being in the throes of action. It was his mistake, an error in judgment.
“His Majesty is perfectly conscious of the difficulties you have had to face,” he said soothingly. “He considers all the complications. And as a matter of fact, that is why I managed to have you invited here this evening, as the victor of Akulgo.”
Dmitri was no longer listening.
“And there’s something else. We’re so sure of our own superiority that we don’t take the Montagnards seriously. We aren’t remotely curious about their culture, their tribal structures, their politics, or their religion. We can’t even fathom the possibility that we could learn something from them, if only from the way they fight. Yet if we knew them, it would help us to defeat them.”
“They’re already defeated,” the count muttered sternly. “The war is over. They’ve given up. They’ve even given us their children so that we can make good little Russians of them. This mission you just completed, at Tsarskoye Sielo, this boy, the rebel’s son you brought there—that is striking proof. Finally they understand what’s good for them!”
Milyutin chose not to follow this unexpected turn in the conversation. Yes, he had just delivered the small prisoner in his care to the Alexandrovsky Cadet Corps at Tsarskoye Sielo. So?
It was precisely this, this last journey, that he still couldn’t stomach.
Four months earlier, during the peace negotiations with the Montagnards, he had seen how General Grabbe had treated his hostage. How he had had him imprisoned in the camp. How he had had him sent to the fort at Temir-Khan-Chura. And from there, how, with violence—
He tried to chase the images from his mind and returned to strategic considerations.
“For the past fifty years, Uncle, ever since the reign of Catherine the Great, all of our generals have been crying victory. All of them, one after another, General Fézé, General von Klugenau, and now General Grabbe. One day, their arrogance and their blindness will cost the empire dearly.”
“The wars of pacification have put enough of a strain on the treasury and weighed too heavily on the crown and on the czar,” the count snapped, losing what remained of his patience, “for you to come here this evening and explain to us that they were poorly conducted and, what’s more, that they’re not over. Anyway, why should they continue? As you pointed out, there is no gold in the Caucasus, no silver, no iron—nothing. If the Montagnards are as poor as you say they are, why don’t we leave them alone so they can fight it out among themselves? Why are we knocking ourselves out?”
“Why?” Dmitri stared at the count. Could a man so well read really be asking such a naïve question?
“Because we have no choice, Uncle! The chain of the Caucasus is a fortress that cuts the empire in two. It runs all the way across the country, from the Black Sea to the Caspian, barring our path along a thousand versts. We cannot permit an enclave inhabited by hostile Muslims to separate us from our people, the Orthodox Christians in the south. How can we accept the fact that the routes leading to our own territories—the roads to Georgia and to Armenia—are constantly subject to the raids of a bunch of fanatics whose goal it is to extend the power of Islam? How can we abandon our western ports that look to Constantinople and to Europe, and the eastern ones facing Asia, without sacrificing the fleet and giving up trade? As for the security of our frontiers, protecting ourselves from the invading Turks, from Persian incursions, and from England’s designs on Afghanistan and India depends entirely upon holding the Caucasus. We have no choice but to conquer the tribes and colonize the land. Pacify. But how?”
“To hear you tell it, that, indeed, is the question.”
“In any case, not the way we’re going about it now, by massacring the population. Do you want to know the truth? Our brutality serves only the imam Shamil.”
“The imam Shamil is dead.”
“The only man we should have killed,” the young man muttered angrily, “the one we allowed to get away, out of sheer stupidity, is not dead.”
“Dead or on the run, it’s all the same, now he’s worth nothing. Grabbe says he’s just a miserable wretch sneaking from cave to cave, defenseless and without resources, abandoned by his people there in the mountains. We’ll catch him sooner or later.”
“He is alive. He is free.”
“He has been defeated, Dmitri!”
“But he’s kept what is essentiaclass="underline" his honor, his weapons, and something more. After the miracle of his escape from Ghimri eight years ago, the miracle of his flight from Akulgo has transformed him into an indestructible figure. He has become a legend in his own eyes, and in the eyes of the Dagestanis and the Chechens too. Now they’re all as convinced as he is that he’s God’s Chosen One. The death of all his companions, of his sister, of his second wife, even of his youngest son in atrocious conditions—all that changes nothing. As for kidnapping his heir, his desire for revenge—which has now become very personal—dictates that he must survive. For the Russians, the nightmare is just beginning.”
“You’re exaggerating, Dmitri Alexeyevitch.”
The young man restrained himself only with great effort.
“I’m exaggerating nothing. Grabbe’s report is a tissue of half-truths. I’m sure they’ll be worth a cross of the Order of Saint Alexander Nevsky for him. And for me, this splendid silver medal that I value above all others, with the inscription: ‘For the assault on Akulgo, 22 August 1839.’ I wear it with pride, like all of my comrades who took part in the siege. As for ‘Akulgo, 22 August,’ you should know that things didn’t happen exactly the way—”
“I thought I told you to be quiet.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t say a word in front of the czar when we get there.”
“I should hope not, not in the presence of the empress and the children.”
“I’ll shut up, I give you my word. I will not talk about the things I saw happen there at the dinner table. How the siege really ended. But you, my uncle, you who are close to the czar, you to whom he listens, you my benefactor, whom I love and respect, you should hear what we did during the last assault.”
“I suppose that, in your present worked-up state, no argument will stop you. All right, I’m listening. But hurry up. I’ll give you three minutes. What did you see at Akulgo that is worth my telling the czar?”
As the kibitka covered the last four versts of the Nevsky Prospect, the beginning and the end of all journeys for those who served the empire, Count Pavel Dmitrievitch Kiselyev was still contemplating what he had just heard. As he drove under the triumphal arch, past the Alexandrine column, across the square, and along the side of the massive red Winter Palace, and all the way up to the main entrance, the images turned over and over again in his mind.
Could a massacre of such proportions have consequences in the future?
And, contrary to what he had thought earlier, should he let Dmitri tell this story? This opportunity would not present itself again. But should he seize the moment? He knew his nephew well enough to be certain that he would not step beyond the limits of propriety. But, in speaking freely, the young man would be taking a huge risk. Should he hold him back or encourage him to do so? He had asked himself these questions all his life. Intervene in affairs of state or let things take their course? How to act—and when to act—for the honor of Russia?
He had thought about this at length in 1837, when he had presented Czar Nicholas with his proposal for reform, which included the emancipation of the serfs. It was the only proposal to date that had dared to suggest such a thing. True, His Majesty himself had commissioned the report on the condition of the peasants. But the uproar in the aristocracy that had ensued had made him fear for the fall of all the Kiselyevs. The emperor, relieved at the reaction of the nobility, had immediately dismissed the report—and understandably so. The emperor hated change and disorder. He hated reforms and constitutions. And ever since the revolt of the Decembrists had nearly cost him the throne, he particularly hated liberals. How the count had managed to remain in favor all these years was a mystery. Far from banishing him after the scandalous report, Czar Nicholas had appointed him minister of domains. He, Pavel Dmitrievitch Kiselyev, who had granted constitutions to the two provinces under his administration, who was considered at court to be a worthless democrat!
“Strange weaknesses of the tyrants who govern us,” the count sighed to himself.
His thoughts implied no reproach, no criticism of his master, only a sort of self-mockery. His loyalty to the czar was total, his admiration sincere. He loved him. As for His Majesty, he considered Kiselyev a charming idealist, an old courtier who knew how to choose his moment and sugarcoat his message.
But regarding Akulgo, should he speak up or not?
The count patted the gloved hand of his protégé and whispered in his ear, not without irony, “Insha’Allah!”