He must leave in a day or two. But first there was this tiresome business to attend to. He strode along the river: where was the place she said she had seen the fellow?
Maryushka was in love. It had all been so simple, so natural.
She had just seen him, and known that instant sense of peace and happiness, followed by an extraordinary lightening of the spirit. It had been so simple, yet so miraculous. For the young man had felt it too. After that, there was nothing more to say.
He was a peasant, from one of the Bobrov estates just west of Moscow. He had been sent to St Petersburg the previous month in charge of half a dozen sleds full of provisions for the household.
When she had told Procopy that she wanted to marry him, he had looked thoughtful.
‘He’s a peasant,’ he began.
‘I don’t mind,’ she had said quickly. ‘I’m used to life in a village.’
Procopy’s face had cleared. Maryushka, being innocent, had not realized that he had only been afraid that she would want him to give this valuable young fellow his freedom.
‘Very well then. If it’s what you want, you shall go down to the village this spring, as soon as my wife can replace you,’ he said. And he had given her a third of the money old Andrei had left for her. Not that he wanted the rest but he judged that, as a peasant’s wife, to have more might be bad for her.
Maryushka was happy. She was in love, and in a few days she was to leave St Petersburg for ever. Though she still often thought of her parents, the pain of the past was fading as she looked forward to her new life.
She had been walking by the Neva only the day before when she had seen the men digging a trench. That was nothing unusual. There were hundreds of such gangs of unfortunates – peasants, conscripts, prisoners of war – who made up the army of workers that Tsar Peter had ordered to build his new capital.
Indeed, she would hardly have glanced at these poor fellows if she had not noticed that one of them seemed to be staring fixedly at her.
She looked down.
There in the broad, half-frozen trench stood a dark fellow of middle height who might have been handsome once. Even now, he had tried to trim the greying stubble of his beard, but without complete success. His eyes were sunken. He had lost several teeth. And as they gazed at each other, she saw him tremble.
It was Pavlo, her Cossack uncle.
There could be no doubt about it. Though she had been young at the time she would never forget the faces of the two men who had rescued her from the fire and brought her back to the Bobrovs in Moscow.
‘Pavlo.’
‘Maryushka.’
‘Why are you here?’
He tried to smile, then his mouth began to work and she realized that it was difficult for him to speak. Something came out she did not understand. Then he was racked by a fit of coughing.
He tried again.
‘Mazeppa.’
Then she understood.
For in the few years since they had last seen each other, everything had changed in the Ukraine. And to the Great Russians of the north, then and ever since, the name of Mazeppa has meant only one thing: treachery.
The reasons why Peter fell out with the Little Russians of the Ukraine were as inevitable as they were tragic. Basically, they failed him. The huge contingents of Cossacks who came to help him fight the Swedes were no match for the highly trained north Europeans. They suffered appalling casualties – over fifty per cent very often. As a result, Peter despised them; he not only gave them Russian and German officers but started quartering his own troops in the Ukraine too. This was exactly what the Ukrainians hated most. Why should they be humiliated? And what was Peter’s distant war to them anyway?
It was in the autumn of 1708 that the crisis really broke. The war had been going badly for Peter. No one thought he could win, and the powers of Europe, while they laughed at his new capital in the icy marshes of the north, were looking forward to seeing his empire broken and then dismembered.
And it was then that the victorious Charles XII of Sweden joined the Poles for a great drive against poor Russia. They were expected to attack Moscow. That would be the end of Peter. But then the Swedish King swung south instead – against the Ukraine.
And Mazeppa joined him.
Was it treachery? Undoubtedly. Was Mazeppa a schemer; had he been negotiating with Peter’s enemies for years? Of course he had. He was the Cossack Hetman. Was Peter blameless then?
Certainly not. Quite apart from his ruthless treatment of the Little Russians, he had also sent a message, at this moment of crisis, that they must defend themselves without his help. And though he was hard-pressed himself, the Ukrainians quite rightly claimed that this broke the agreement they had made with Russia back in Bogdan’s time – that Russia would protect them. To save his land, Mazeppa did what he thought he had to.
It was a mistake. In a lightning strike, Peter’s favourite Menshikov took Mazeppa’s capital and stores and butchered almost the entire population of the place, soldiers or not.
The Ukraine hesitated. The Russians clamped down. Some Cossacks joined Mazeppa. Many did not.
The following spring came the great battle of Poltava.
This battle was, perhaps, Peter’s finest hour. He himself, whatever his faults, was completely fearless. One musket ball knocked his hat off, another hit his saddle, and another was stopped by a silver icon he wore round his neck. But at the end of that great day, the mighty Swedes were utterly routed.
Europe was astounded. The eccentric young Tsar had won after all; defeated mighty Sweden. The map of Europe was changed in a day: a new and tremendous Russia was arising. And Europe, having laughed, was now afraid.
For the Ukraine, too, it changed everything. From now on, Peter pursued a new and ruthless policy. The old south was to be Russianized. Big Russian landowners, especially Menshikov, appeared. Cossack districts were headed by Russians. Even the Ukrainian presses were censored, to ensure they printed nothing that disagreed with Great Russian publications. And soon, instead of a stream of Cossack soldiers going north, there came dismal lines of conscripts, by the thousand, to work on the Tsar’s building projects.
For Peter meant to be firm. As he told his advisers, he intended to model the subjugation of the Ukraine on the pattern set by the Englishman Cromwell, in Ireland.
In a way, Pavlo had been lucky. Had he not been stricken with a fever, he would have ridden with his patron Mazeppa. Had he done so, he would either have fled in exile to Sweden, or else been hung if taken captive.
But in his case, when the inspecting officers found him at Pereiaslav, there was doubt. His case was referred to Peter himself. The answer was brief and to the point:
This officer once brought me a letter. He is a close associate of Mazeppa and cannot be trusted.
He is to lose all his estates and be sent with the conscripts to St Petersburg.
And now, with a hundred others, he was digging a trench. While Procopy Bobrov went to look for him.
And what the devil will I do if I find him? he wondered.
It was a ticklish situation. He could, of course, have ignored the girl when she begged for his help. But no – their families had been friends and… well, there it was, he was ashamed. But what could he do – ask the Tsar for clemency? He dare not. Peter could forgive many things, but never treachery. Even the name Mazeppa was enough to make him burst out in fury.
Perhaps Procopy could bribe the fellow in charge of Pavlo? That was risky, though and besides, the Cossack knew too much about his family and the Raskolniki.