Chapter 13

At five o’clock on the morning of the 28th of June, a shabby hired carriage drove into the grounds of Peterhof Palace, past the avenues of trees with their companies of sleepily twittering birds, past the magnificent façade of the main building, favorite pleasure palace of the dead Elizabeth Petrovna, and turned towards the small summer pavilion, where in a window a single candle burned.

It was there, without guards and attended only by a few servants and her waiting-woman, that Catherine Alexeievna spent her days of uneasy retirement, and at that very hour within its flimsy walls the Empress Consort of Russia lay asleep.

Her lady-in-waiting, Madame Chargorodsky, knelt at her devotions, her room lit by the flame of that solitary candle, for she was a pious woman, and the silent oppressive atmosphere of Peterhof seemed to her as if it were heavy with the spirit of the late Empress, as well as weighed down by the ill-concealed nervousness and anxiety of the present Czarina. So the good Madame left her bed and sought the comfort of the ikon before which she was even then prostrated.

So it was that when her door opened softly and a large shadow darkened the floor, creeping towards her on silent feet, she heard nothing until a hand rested on her shoulder and the touch of a knife blade at her throat stilled the scream she had opened her mouth to utter.

“One word and I’ll pin you to the wall by the neck,” whispered Alexis Orlov and, looking at that devil’s mask, the lady-in-waiting never doubted his threat.

“Get up! Where is the Empress?”

Madame Chargorodsky nodded weakly towards a door in an alcove.

“Open it and go inside.”

The Czarina’s bedroom was bathed in gray half-light, and for a moment Orlov hesitated as he approached her couch. She lay sleeping peacefully, her black hair spread over the pillows, and it came to him suddenly that his brother must have often seen her thus, relaxed and stripped of all the trappings of great estate, a lovely woman, vulnerable as any other in the innocence of sleep.

She awoke to the touch of his hands on her, shaking her gently; and in a blinding flash of fear Catherine returned to consciousness and struck at him as she would at an assassin. But his hands held her, firmly and soothingly, despite their terrible strength, and at last in the half-light she saw the scar on his face and gasped in astonishment and relief.

“Alexis! What are you doing here, in God’s name?”

“I come to take you back to St. Petersburg! Passek has been arrested; our plans have been betrayed to the Emperor. Soldiers will be sent to capture you within the next few hours. Hurry, Madame, or by the Virgin, we’ll not reach the capital alive!”

Even as he spoke all fear left her.

Too late now for Gregory to assassinate Peter as he had proposed, and for the schemes of Panin to work their tortuous paths. Princess Dashkov had been right: without her presence they had blundered, as men of action always will when tact and cunning are demanded of them. But Fate had intervened, averting her destruction by a few short hours, giving her once more such a respite as had saved her at the birth of Orlov’s son. This was her chance, ordained those many years ago when the young Princess of Anhalt had taken the first steps towards the Russian throne; she must succeed or perish.

Within ten minutes she was dressed, her hair secured with a few pins, hurrying in Orlov’s wake towards the waiting carriage. As he helped her inside she saw that the first red tinge of sunrise was beginning to color the delicate roofs and colonnades of Peterhof, and every bird in the hundreds of trees were singing in jubilant greetings to the coming day. Opposite her sat the white-faced lady-in-waiting, too dangerous to be left behind.

Sitting in his corner, Alexis observed her with admiration and masculine amazement. Despite her beauty, her charm and sensuousness, he saw the contradiction in her that had enslaved and since infuriated Gregory, the deadly force of character which so belied her womanhood, the courage and coolness which made her smile in the very teeth of death and danger. Small wonder that Peter Feodorovitch had known he must kill her in order to be safe.

“Alexis,” she said suddenly. “How long since Passek was arrested?”

“Last night, Madame,” he answered.

“Then by now news must have reached the Emperor at Oranienbaum. God knows what may not have been forced out of Passek; we must abandon all thought of Gregory’s plan. What does he contemplate?”

“A revolution, Madame, but how it is to be achieved I do not know.…”

Catherine leaned forward and touched his arm.

“Well, friend Alexis, I think that I do! Tell that fool to whip up the horses; the sun is risen and we have no time to lose! If all goes well with me, I shall know how to reward you for your help this day!”

In obedience to her command, the carriage increased its speed, lurching and swaying from side to side so that its illustrious passenger and her escort were almost flung from their seats. Yet Catherine cursed the slowness of the third-rate horses, as she watched the sky turn lighter.

Just before they entered St. Petersburg another coach appeared, driven by Gregory Orlov himself, who transferred his mistress from the shabby calèche into a vehicle befitting her status. Alexis drove.

All St. Petersburg was still asleep. Only the Orlovs and their fellow conspirators knew of the blow that had fallen, and they had spent the night in fevered preparations to receive the Empress and do battle for the throne.

Panin had promised to support her in the Senate, the Dashkova had hurried away to inform her intimates that Catherine might be expected in the capital at any hour and that the rising must take place that day.

Listening to Gregory’s account, Catherine sensed the panic and confusion which had engulfed her partisans and which not even the iron courage and resourcefulness of her lover had been able to stem. With Alexis and his brother once out of the city, who knew what treacherous forms that fear might not take?

“I see the Ismailov Barracks.… Tell Alexis to stop the coach!” Gregory glanced at her in surprise.

“What madness is this? I tell you we have no time to lose. I must lodge you safely in the palace before I can begin to act.”

“I am not going to the palace. I am halting here. I have changed the plan, Gregory, I changed it on the journey and I order you to stop the coach!”

For a moment he hesitated, and Catherine thrust her head out of the window and called herself, careless of the anger on his face at her defiance or his resentment at her tone.

Obediently Alexis drew on the rein and jumped down. Catherine opened the door and alighted; then suddenly she turned to Gregory and the hardness had melted from her eyes and mouth.

“Forgive me if I was abrupt, beloved, but my instincts in this tell me that they must be followed. I trust no politician; their ways are not your ways and I fear they might forfeit my life and their promises to me without a qualm. Come, Gregory Gregorovitch, trust me and forgive her who loves you and cannot bear to see you angry! From this moment I am in your hands and in the hands of those who know and follow you!

“Rouse the soldiers of the Ismailovs. Tell them their Empress is in danger and appeals for their protection! As you love me, go!”

The start of Catherine’s revolution was a strange scene; half-dressed sleepy soldiers emerging into the street outside their barracks, summoned by a single drummer’s echoing beat, a tiny nucleus of moving men beneath the early morning sky who heard the declarations from the lips of their Empress. She, the magnificent Catherine whose health they had drunk and whose beauty they had coveted in the manner of all men, was in danger of her life and stood there pale and dignified, fair as a goddess in her plain black gown, asking the protection of her people.

Simon Goronov, soldier and son of a freed serf, broke the silence that had descended upon them once their Emperor’s wife had spoken. For a moment they had hesitated, waiting for someone to take the lead, to speak first in the cause of what they knew in their hearts to be treason, while Catherine’s face drained deadly pale and the Orlovs’ hands crept to their swords.

No scruples troubled Goronov; he wore upon his back a Prussian uniform, for months he had drilled endlessly in the hated, unfamiliar German fashion and dreamed day and night of cutting the Czar’s throat as reprisal for these humiliations. Now, as by the gift of God, his opportunity had come in the person of the Empress.

He flung his hat in the air and roared with all the power of his great voice.

“Long live our Little Mother Catherine! Death to the German pig!” On the instant that cry was taken up.

Every man among them joined with the giant Goronov, who had fallen to his knees and was kissing the Czarina’s hands with tears of rage and emotion running down his leathery face and into his black beard, cursing and swearing eternal loyalty. Catherine found herself surrounded by hundreds of shouting enthusiastic men, struggling to be near, to get a close glimpse of the legendary Catherine Alexeievna, to hear her voice or touch her gown.

It was useless for Gregory and Alexis to thrust and elbow their way into that crowd, for none could have reached her, neither friend nor enemy. The officers of the Ismailovs had begun to mingle with their men, and at last the wildly cheering troops made a pathway for their Colonel, who fell on one knee before Catherine and kissed her hand in homage.

“God be praised, Your Majesty! The Ismailovs will fight for you to the last drop of their blood!”

Dozens of reverent hands lifted the Czarina into her own carriage, and a forest of naked swords surrounded the vehicle as still more soldiers hurried up. Alexis jumped onto the step and his brother sprang into the coach with Catherine. In one corner Madame Chargorodsky crouched silently, her hands clasped in an attitude of prayer. Orlov cast one contemptuous look at the shivering bemused woman and then caught his mistress in his arms. Someone among the crowd peered through the window and set up a mighty, envious cheer at this mark of imperial preference for the army.

Breathless and trembling, Catherine tore herself free.

“Not yet, my Gregory. We are not sure of victory yet. But it is the right beginning. Tell them to move on!”

Someone had fetched the regimental priest to give his blessing to the proceedings, and priest and crucifix were hustled into the front of the procession which began to move slowly forward, hemmed in by its escort of yelling soldiery, in the direction of the Semionovsky barracks.

There the troops had been already warned of Catherine’s approach, and a horde of officers and men came running down the street to greet her. Again she ordered the carriage to stop and alighted in the midst of the enthusiastic Semionovsky Regiment, giving her hands to be kissed, unaware that she herself was crying with emotion, knowing only that even if the day ended in her defeat and death she would never forget the love these people had shown her in her hour of greatest need.

But time was short; the streets had begun to fill with civilians who approached this fantastic sight with caution, while the whisper spread throughout St. Petersburg that the Empress had entered the city to raise an army for protection against the Czar.

That rumor reached the Preobrazhensky Barracks deeper in the center of the town. Among the first to hear the news of Catherine’s approach was Elizabeth Vorontzov’s brother, who commanded the Grenadiers.

He and several other officers who had received or expected favors at Peter’s hands called out their men and reminded them of their oath to obey and succor the Czar against all comers. It was no less their duty to defend his throne against the treacherous onslaught of an unfaithful wife.

Watching Alexis, Catherine sensed a change in his expression as the vehicle turned into the broad sweep of the Nevsky Prospect. She leaned out and pulled at his sleeve.

“What is it, Alexis? What is wrong, we have almost stopped?”

“It is the Preobrazhenskys, Madame, and by the look of them they are come to fight us, not to join our cause!”

By this time the coach had halted, hemmed in on every side by the ranks of the Ismailovs and their brothers in the Semionovskys. The long expanse of the Nevsky Prospect was quite silent except for the ominous tread of the third regiment with Count Vorontzov at its head, which advanced with weapons drawn and muskets leveled towards Catherine and her troops.

Gregory leaped out of the carriage, pausing at the window to order Catherine to kneel on the floor when the first shot was fired.

His face was a mask in which his light eyes glittered dangerously; the fighter rejoiced in spite of himself in the chance to do battle. This was his métier, the world wherein the sword was arbiter, and the strongest triumphed without mercy over the weak. Until this moment Catherine had given the lead; hers was the victory, won by the strategy of cunning which he would never understand or practice with success. Now his fierce pride saw a chance to prove himself, to win all things for the woman he loved by virtue of sheer valor, and to establish more firmly the domination over her destiny which he had fought so jealously to maintain.

He did not want to win the Preobrazhenskys to her side, when he could annihilate them and cover himself with glory.

In that quick exchange of glances Catherine knew that unless she acted he would give the word to fire, and the earliest stage of her coup d’état would end in a welter of her people’s blood. She, the liberating Empress who promised to free them from the Prussian yoke, would have begun by engulfing them in civil war.

Without a moment’s thought of danger, she opened the door and stood on the coach step within full view of the Preobrazhenskys. And Orlov swore a fearful oath and lowered his pistol.

He swung round and tried to thrust her into the interior of the carriage, cursing and pleading with her to obey.

With his hand upon her arm, she hesitated for a single moment, bracing herself against the lintel of the door, and looked out over the heads of her men to where the serried ranks had halted only a few yards away.

That sight of her and the fanatic shouts of her supporters broke the spell. Suddenly Count Menshikov remembered that he stood by the side of the hated Elizabeth Vorontzov’s brother, that he and his men were about to attack the woman whom he had liked and admired for years, and to shed blood in order to keep Peter Feodorovitch upon a throne he was unfit to occupy.

It was his voice that rose from the ranks of Catherine’s enemies, loud and ringing with excitement.

“Long live our Little Mother, the Empress of Russia!”

The next moment there was pandemonium, a shouting, surging chaos in which the Count Vorontzov found himself disarmed and made prisoner by his own men, while the rest of the Guards ran in droves towards that carriage, cheering and brandishing their weapons, fighting to get to the coach and its royal passenger, crying their loyalty and contrition with hundreds of eager voices.

The crisis was past. The army was going over to Catherine Alexeievna, and there in the open city streets they dragged the priest into their midst and knelt in homage, while Peter’s wife was proclaimed Empress of all the Russias, and every man among them swore allegiance.

Swelled by thousands of townspeople, the procession made its way to the very heart of St. Petersburg, joined by regiment after regiment who hastened to put themselves under the new Empress’s command. Gregory Orlov’s own troops handed her the keys to the city arsenal, and the historic coach halted finally before the great doors of the Kazan Cathedral. There, where she had stood beside Peter as a bride of Sixteen, Catherine Alexeievna took the oath as Empress and Autocrat of all the Russias.

There, too, she received Nikita Panin, who had been hurerid to the cathedral by Alexis Orlov, and there she embraced her shrinking son whose throne she was usurping.

Orlov had discovered the Count in his bedroom in the palace, feigning sleep and apparently deaf to the tumult of revolution which was taking place beneath his windows. Panin the conspirator had awakened to find his Czar deposed, and not Paul Petrovitch but the German-born Czarina proclaimed in his stead.

He came to the cathedral, dragging the Czarevitch by the hand, to make obeisance to the woman he had foolishly thought to use for his own ends. But he was wise enough to recognize defeat and bow before her to the ground.

Catherine greeted him with the effusion she knew how to express so well. Panin was powerful still and cunning; at all costs he must be retained among her friends.

“Of all my subjects you are the most welcome, my dear Count! From this day I shall have ever greater need of your counsel and support. Come to me in the Winter Palace when this service is ended.”

Panin murmured his gratitude and backed away from her. As usual her grasp of human nature had chosen the exact amount of flattery and promise to decide him in her favor.

When Catherine emerged once more from the church she saw a sea of faces stretching before her, overflowing from the square into the surrounding streets, and for a moment she paused on the steps, waiting as she had done on the day of her wedding all those years ago, to acknowledge the cheers of the people who filled the air with the sound of their happiness and acclamation.

That cheering, waving multitude was the reward of twenty years of patience, of her wretched marriage and persecuted youth. With this destiny in mind she had endured and schemed and cheated; for this she had risked her life and come to St. Petersburg that morning, rather than take the coward’s recourse and flee to Sweden while she still had time.

A great flood of feeling overwhelmed her as she stood on the cathedral steps, a tide of emotion beside which her former loves and fears dwindled to insignificance, the shallow reflexes of a nature as yet unfulfilled.

Her lovers Saltykov, Poniatowsky, even Gregory in all his magnificent sensual power … what were they to her compared with this?… There in that roaring crowd she saw the symbol of her country; her love for them and their need of her was the true fulfillment of her life, the last gratification of mind and body which no mere man could hope to give her.

Every church bell in the city had begun to peal as she raised her fingers to her lips and blew a kiss to the multitude, before descending once more to enter her carriage.

Catherine’s drive to the Winter Palace was a triumphal march, a procession through streets packed tight with people, while the coach traveled at the slowest walking pace. An escort of soldiers protected the new Empress from the enthusiasm of the populace, who thrust and struggled to get a glimpse of the woman bowing and smiling at them through the window. In places the crush was so great that it threatened to halt and perhaps overturn the carriage until the guards began clearing a path with kicks and blows.

Inside the Winter Palace a crowd of excited courtiers had assembled and the first to run forward and greet Catherine was Princess Dashkov. Crying with happiness, she flung herself into the Empress’s arms, too overwhelmed with emotion and relief to remember the dictates of ceremony. For some moments the two women embraced, laughing and talking at once, while the Dashkovo held on to her beloved friend and gazed into her face.

Scores of her intimates clustered around Catherine, kissing her hand, showering their congratulations upon her, until among them she saw a familiar face and hurried forward extending both hands to greet him.

He tried to kneel to her, but she would not permit it; she put her arms around him and kissed his cheek before the eyes of the whole court.

“Dear Leo,” she said, “my dear, faithful friend. It only needed you to share this day with me and now my cup of happiness is full.”

Catherine looked at him and smiled. Now, when the reins of power had passed to her, she would be able to reward with wealth and honors a devotion unlikely to be matched by any other.

Later she supped, ordering the table to be placed by an open window within full view of the crowd still massed in the palace square, and raised her wine glass in acknowledgment of their delighted cheers.

All her innate showmanship and talent for stage management rose to the fore during those early hours of her revolution, so that she studied every word and movement to attain the right effect. No hint of violence, of anything save spontaneity, must reach those crowds who called her name with such enthusiasm. She must appear to them a savior, placed on the throne by their own wish, while all rightful claimants to the Russian crown still lived.…

That afternoon the Senate was assembled and, with Panin at her side, Catherine sat down at her first Council. The oath of loyalty to her was taken at once, and with a unanimity which made her smile behind her fan; she had done well to flatter Panin, for in return he had kept his word. Not a voice was raised against her.

At regular intervals the meeting was interrupted by messages sent back by the guards posted along the roads out of the city, and reports from armed boats patrolling the Neva at Catherine’s orders.

While the Senate debated the best method of dealing with him, the Empress’s soldiers kept watch for the telltale cloud of dust which must herald the approach of Peter Feorodovitch and his army, marching on treacherous St. Petersburg to regain his throne.

Catherine and Gregory had closed the roads and placed troops on every bridge leading out of the city, but despite these measures and the speed with which they were enforced, word had reached the Emperor at Oranienbaum that his capital was in the throes of an armed rising.

Deaf to the advice of Chancellor Vorontzov, who counseled him to assemble his private army of Holsteiners and march on St. Petersburg without delay, Peter wasted precious time in violent ravings and abuse, coupled with the determination to ride not on the mutinous city, but to nearby Peterhof, where no one could persuade him that he would not find Catherine waiting quietly as she had been bidden. Contrary to Orlov’s fears, Passek’s arrest had not been reported, his captors had delayed until the morning, only to find themselves in the hands of Catherine’s troops.

At Peterhof, the Czar declared obstinately, would lie the root and the remedy of all unrest. There they would have his most dangerous enemy in custody, and Peter voiced his intention of having her executed within the hour of their arrival.

With Elizabeth Vorontzov at his side, he made the short journey to the Old Palace, followed by his main force of Holstein troops. His confidence and rage covered an abyss of foreboding and fear, so deep that he dared not hesitate and recognize it.

Preceded by his guards, he ran into the Monplaisir Pavilion, dragging the Vorontzova by the hand, shouting to Catherine to show herself. Only a scattering of white-faced servants appeared to answer his summons, and to admit that they had not seen the Czarina since the previous night and that she was nowhere to be found.

Peter paused at last in her bedroom, surveying the unmade bed and heaps of discarded clothing which proclaimed the evidence of flight. He was trembling in every limb and the sweat ran down his disfigured face. For a moment he stood there in silence, swallowing repeatedly as his mouth dried with terror. He swung round at last, his features distorted out of all semblance of control.

“She’s gone!” he yelled. “I tell you she’s escaped! Now do you see how right I was! Now do you see that I ought to have killed her long ago! You wouldn’t let me, you fool!” he continued, shrieking at the Chancellor, his finger stabbing the air in accusation. “Now God knows where she is. God knows what evil she is working against me!”

The Chancellor coughed. He knew Peter and the punishments he was capable of inflicting when in the grip of frenzy. He moved quickly aside as Marshal Münnich, one of Peter’s court and experienced soldier, hurried into the room.

“Your Majesty, I have news!” The Czar almost sprang at him.

“You have found her?” he demanded.

“No, Sire. A messenger has just reached us from Oranienbaum. The Empress is in St. Petersburg. The rising is in her name. She has been proclaimed autocrat and the Senate have formally deposed you this afternoon. It is the vilest treason!”

“So she heads a revolution against me, me the rightful ruler! She and the sniveling curs in the Senate depose me, do they? What of the army, Marshal?”

“I fear they have gone over to her cause.”

“Then my capital city has betrayed me utterly, my soldiers have proved themselves the swine and cowards I always deemed them. Come now, Chancellor, what do you suggest we do? Has that fertile brain of yours no plan for overcoming all these things?”

Vorontzov shook his head.

“Well, I have not been idle in these last moments,” the Emperor continued. “I have a plan which should do justice to your talents as my wife’s escape does justice to your judgment. We will compose a letter to my wife; we will demand that she and all the other traitors shall surrender. Who knows, they may be lawful at the end, they may read it and submit! What say you, Chancellor?”

Vorontzov shrugged. As well might Peter try to extinguish a fire with spittle, but it would hardly do to argue with him at that mement.

“It is a good plan, Your Majesty!”

“I am glad that you approve.” Peter Feodorovitch began to snigger. “For as soon as it is written, I shall commend you to the care of my men for escort and they will set you down at the gates of St. Petersburg, where you can deliver the message to the gentle Catherine with your own hands. Perchance she will surrender without putting you to death for all the wrongs she owes you in the past.”

He watched the color draining out of his minister’s face and began to rock with laughter. “Hurry now and write out my demands! You must proceed without delay.”

No sooner had the door closed behind Vorontzov than Marshal Münnich approached his sovereign.

“I beg Your Majesty to be serious. The position is most grave. We must take action quickly.”

Peter faced him, his unsteady humor vanished, his hands tearing nervously at his cravat.

“I am not afraid,” he said thickly. “I am a soldier. Danger does not frighten me. We Germans are worth a hundred of these Russian dogs. I will fight her. I will stay here with my army and fight to the death!”

Even as he spoke his heart contracted with fear. He spoke of fighting, he who had never fired a shot in anger, even as he talked of death, when his flesh crept with terror at the thought of finality and darkness.

Münnich gestured impatiently.

“That is impossible. Peterhof could never withstand a siege, it was built for pleasure, not for war. We would be annihilated. Take my advice, Sire, and set sail at once for Kronstadt. The navy will be loyal to you, and from there you can make plans to sail down the Neva and attack St. Petersburg from the river!”

Peter stamped to the window; he was shaking violently and a torrent of confused thoughts raced through his burning brain. Suggestions were pouring in upon him, for others had joined the Marshal and were adding their pleas to his. He did not know what to do or where to turn. Catherine was within a few miles, gathering an army, taking his crown, alienating his subjects. How could he go to Kronstadt and leave the protection of these walls?

“No,” he repeated. “No; I will stay here and fight. I am not afraid.…”

It was almost evening when his resistance collapsed, when the atmosphere of terror and confusion which had invaded his supporters destroyed his last reserves of pretense.

Vorontzov had gone, white-faced and speechless, to his doom at Catherine’s hands. The court had eaten a makeshift meal, its eyes fixed on the Czar who sat scowling and grimacing vacantly into the empty air, deaf to the entreaties of his mistress to take a little food, holding out his glass at ever shorter intervals for a lackey to refill with wine.

Only then, with the trembling Elizabeth Vorontzov clinging to his arm, did he consent to yield to Münnich’s advice and embark on the royal yacht for the imperial naval base at Kronstadt.

Most of the journey he spent in comfortable oblivion, his head in his mistress’s lap, the wine fumes dulling fear and consciousness, until the swaying motion of the vessel changed as she dropped anchor and Peter awoke to find Kronstadt was reached at last.

The harbor lay in darkness; a few pinpoints of light glowed faintly from the fortress building, and from the ship’s deck a sailor’s voice rang out, echoing across the silent water.

“Ahoy there! Open the harbor!”

The answer came from the port’s protecting bastion.

“Who goes there!”

Peter had obeyed Münnich’s summons and climbed on deck. It was he who answered, his words shrill and quavering as he stood shivering in the chill night air.

“It is I! The Emperor!”

From the watch tower of the bastion he heard a derisive angry yell.

“There is no Emperor! Long live the Empress Catherine! Move off or we fire!”

Peter caught at the rail, his legs giving under him. They were too late. Catherine had got to Kronstadt first and the navy too had betrayed him.

Seeing his distress the Marshal came to his side at once.

“Order them to open the harbor! Command them in the name of their rightful Czar! Show strength, Sire! They will lift the barriers, I swear they will lift them! Then sail in and land, no one will dare to lift their hand against you once they see you face to face!”

Peter Feodorovitch held on to the rail, breathing deeply, shuddering and gasping with fear. He had never wanted to leave Peterhof; he had never wanted to sail to this damnable treacherous place. Now they counseled him to sail in and put foot upon the shore, to deliver himself to his enemies in the belief that the sight of him would suddenly restore their loyalty when he knew them to be horrible and thirsting for his blood, when he had always known better than to trust his people!

“No, no, no!” he whimpered, and the last word was a scream of terrified refusal. “I will not go in! They will kill me, they are only waiting to kill me. Out of my way, damn you, let me pass! Draw up the anchor and set sail at once! For God’s sake, Marshal, get me back to Oranienbaum where I shall be safe!”

Münnich stood back helplessly, while his sovereign staggered to the companionway and almost fell down the steps in his eagerness to take shelter.

The soldier turned away in disgust and gave orders to move on; delay under such circumstances would only expose them to cannon fire from the garrison at Kronstadt. They departed with such haste that the anchor chain snapped.

While Münnich and the rest of the Czar’s entourage spent the night hours of the return journey pacing the deck, watching the sky growing lighter and the reign of Peter the Third drawing to a close, Peter Feodorovitch remained below, sobbing and cursing with terror, held close in Elizabeth Vorontzov’s arms, hidden in the deepest hold of the vessel.

Catherine Alexeievna was in her boudoir in the Winter Palace, holding private counsel with Panin. For the moment her doors were closed against both Gregory and the Princess Dashkov, who each persisted in deluging her with contrary advice and confusing the issue by displays of jealousy over the attention which the Empress showed the other.

Clearly, even at this early stage, there would not be room for Orlov and the Dashkova among Catherine’s intimates, and the prospect of having to separate herself from the princess was a painful one in the light of all her loyalty and devotion.

But that, with many other disagreeable tasks, still lay ahead of her, and Catherine relegated it impatiently into the background. She needed quiet and the counsel of a shrewd friend to guide her, one whose judgment was not influenced by personal relations with herself.

Panin was cunning and impartial; he had managed his part in the revolution with a magnificent regard for his own safety which compelled Catherine’s instant respect. On such a man she could rely, now that he had committed himself to her cause without hope of withdrawal.

The Count accepted her invitation to be seated and eased himself into one of her delicate gilt chairs.

“My friend, I have sent for you because I need your help. So far all has gone well for us, better than I had ever hoped, for not a drop of my people’s blood has been spilled.”

“Not even Vorontzov’s,” remarked Panin dryly. “How extraordinarily wise and merciful of you to have put him under arrest instead of executing him as no doubt Peter hoped you would!”

“It would be a poor beginning to my reign had I taken the life of one of the greatest nobles in Russia, when by a little prudence and a short memory, I might yet make use of his services.…”

Panin smiled in admiration. “Every man hopes to serve under a sovereign such as you will prove to be, Madame, but I confess such qualities in a woman are very seldom found. However, I know that you dislike delay; on what subject do you seek my opinion?”

Catherine got up and began walking the room, she was frowning and her manner betrayed some nervousness.

“The Senate counsels me to wait here; to issue ukases and establish myself by legislation, while a force under the command of a man like Count Gregory Orlov should go out and secure the Czar. Orlov supports this. On the other hand Princess Dashkov, whose views are not to be despised, advises me to assemble my army and ride out to do battle with Peter this very night! Which course do you approve?”

Panin eyed her shrewdly.

“If you wish to be rid of the Czar, Madame, then I support the first idea; I doubt if Count Orlov will deliver him alive. Bear in mind that we cannot possibly permit Peter Feorodovitch to live. But if you wish to avoid the stain of your husband’s death in captivity, to appear as a woman prepared to fight and lay down her life to enforce the wishes of the people and remove them from the power of a tyrant, then I agree with the princess. Assemble your troops, place yourself at their head, and set out to engage with Peter in the field. It can be arranged that he shall receive a fatal wound during the combat.”

Catherine stood in her favorite position by the window, her face in deep shadow. No one could have read her expression.

“The last is my view also, Count Panin. Send my officers to me, and inform the Senate that I intend to do battle for the crown.”

Panin rose immediately and went to the door.

“It shall be done at once, Your Majesty. I applaud your decision.”

Catherine’s voice interrupted him coldly.

“I would remind you, sir, that you take one matter very much for granted, and I order you never to speak of it in my presence again. I have never said that I intend my husband’s death. You may go!”

Within a few hours a force of fourteen thousand men had been gathered in St. Petersburg and a great phalanx of soldiers, regiments which comprised the cream of the Russian army, waited in the palace square.

A path had been made among them, stretching from the entrance of the palace to the distant confines of the vast courtyard, and this lane, cut through a mass of infantry, was lined by soldiers of the Semionovsky, Ismailov, and Preobrazhensky Guards, those who had first risen for the Empress, and each guardsman bore a flaming resin torch. Flambeaux blazed and smoked from the walls of the palace, casting a red glare over the scene, lighting the moonless sky to a false dawn.

Beneath the leaping torchlight the soldiers stood motionless, packed together in tight ranks. Almost the first order given by Catherine had been the reissuing of the old Czarist uniforms, and the city had witnessed its army stripping itself of the hated Prussian coats and breeches and stamping them into the ground.

Now, with preparations completed, Catherine’s army stood outside the palace, ready to march out of the capital. It was said that the Empress intended to lead the troops herself, and every eye was fixed on the entrance, outlined and illumined by the flaring torches.

Suddenly they glimpsed a magnificent dapple gray horse being led to the bottom of the broad stone steps, and a ripple of anticipatory movement passed over the serried ranks of men like a wave running onto the shore. That was the Empress’s mount.

Within a few moments she would appear.

When she did come she was greeted by silence; for an instant the men did not recognize the tall figure in the uniform of the Preobrazhensky Guards who paused at the head of the wide stairway, a group of officers at her back. Count Galitzin had lent Catherine the dress, and the masculine attire fitted her perfectly. A soldier’s cap entwined with green oak leaves shadowed her face and her black hair hung straight down her back, the tendrils moving in the light summer wind.

The flames of the torches leaped and flickered, framing her beautiful, supple figure in its male garb, lighting her pale, proud features until a tremendous rolling cry told her that she was recognized, and a cheer arose from those waiting thousands which echoed out over the city like thunder.

“Long live the Empress Catherine!”

She began to walk down the steps, swaggering with the easy grace of a young man, the slight, girlish Princess Daskhov following, also dressed in uniform in imitation of her idol.

Catherine mounted as cheers of admiration rocked the palace building to its foundation, and her escorts, Orlov, the Dashkova, princes and nobles of Russia rode up behind her. Then she raised her hand for silence, and on the instant the noise ceased.

Catherine looked down at her side and frowned slightly; she had no sword knot; without it her dress was incomplete.

Another saw that glance, another who had watched her fascinated from a distance and who risked his rank and future fortune on the chance to speak to her.

With two strides he had left his place among the guards and stood before his Empress. He was very tall, this impetuous officer, and his shoulders were of Herculean breadth. The face Catherine noted to be ugly rather than handsome, the complexion dark, the eyes black and brilliant. It was an extraordinary countenance, powerful and bold, with a distinctly Oriental cast of feature. Without doubt Tartar blood ran in the man’s veins. The badges on his uniform were those of a Lieutenant.

For a moment his eyes met Catherine’s and held her gaze without embarrassment. Their expression was almost fanatical. In another, such looks would have been impudence, but in this strange, arrogant young soldier there was no hint of Orlov’s ruthless appraisal, before which Catherine’s majesty invariably fell away. He looked up at her as if he regarded a divinity which had appeared in female form.

He swept her a magnificent bow, his sleeve brushing the ground, and with a dramatic gesture removed his own sword knot and offered it to her.

“If Your Majesty will do me the honor,” he said, and his voice was deep and pleasing. Catherine took the ornament from his hands, aware that his olive skin darkened with color as their fingers touched.

“I thank you, Lieutenant. Your gesture is as gallant as your observation is acute. I am most grateful.”

The young officer bowed again and stepped back with perfect precision into the ranks of his fellows. Catherine fastened the sword knot and gestured to Gregory Orlov to approach. He spurred his mount to her side and, at a word from her, the signal to advance was given.

A series of commands rang out over the square as the procession of horses, led by the Empress on her gray, moved to the end of the courtyard, and the great mass of soldiers, cavalry, cannon and supply wagons prepared to move out of St. Petersburg.

Catherine Alexeievna rode steadily, passing through the city streets, watched by cheering crowds, many of whom recalled the grace and beauty of Elizabeth Petrovna whose habit of reviewing her troops in full Guards dress had become a tradition, and admitted that not even the daughter of Peter the Great had sat her horse with such a magnificent air.

That morning she had passed among them, seated in a plain carriage, surrounded by a yelling rabble of rebellious guards, and the people had welcomed her as the panacea for all the ills which Peter Feodorovitch had brought them. Now for the second time that day they saw her, as a proud, relentless adversary, the victorious sovereign leading her army to do battle. It might well have been Peter who was the usurper, so naturally did his wife fulfill his rôle.

It was a long march and the pace was slow. Catherine conversed at intervals with Gregory on one side of her and the Dashkova on the other. She asked the name of the officer whose sword knot she wore and nodded upon hearing it, but throughout the long weary hours of their progress towards Peterhof she said little and thought a great deal.

The end was near and she knew it, for she did not believe that Peter Feodorovitch would expose himself in battle for the convenient bullet which Panin had suggested. She did not believe that Peter could come out and fight at all. She had an unhappy premonition that he would surrender, and the words of her Minister repeated themselves many times during that night.

“We cannot possibly permit Peter Feodorovitch to live.”

Sometimes the Princess Dashkov questioned her, noting the set expression on her face, the frowning abstraction which possessed her when she should have been afire with confidence and resolution. For the twentieth time she turned to her royal mistress and inquired what ailed her.

They were within sight of Peterhof when Catherine turned to her and the Dashkova saw that the strained look had vanished, and that her blue eyes were blank and clear.

“I have been considering a problem, my little Katrina, and at last I have made my decision. My heart is therefore light once more.”

The Empress’s spies reported that the Czar had taken refuge in Oranienbaum, and Catherine, who had ridden without sleep or rest, established her headquarters in one of the rooms at Peterhof and decided upon a plan of action. An advance guard must go to Oranienbaum, she declared, test the outer defenses and deliver an ultimatum to the Emperor that, unless he surrendered without delay, the imperial army would bombard the palace and blow its buildings and occupants to pieces.

The outposts guarding Oranienbaum were manned by Holstein troops, badly armed and bewildered by the flood of terrified contradictory orders which the Emperor’s staff issued every hour. A preliminary skirmish with Orlov and his soldiers sufficed to drive them back into the palace grounds and, under the protection of a promise of safe conduct, General Ismailov, former friend and emissary of Peter’s who had deserted to the Empress, entered Oranienbaum with the order to submit and the act of abdication, prepared by Catherine herself, lodged in his pocket.

By midday word reached the Czarina at Peterhof that her husband had surrendered himself and signed the document she had dictated.

Those few miles from Oranienbaum to Peterhof were lined by hundreds of eager, vindictive soldiers, men who had suffered every military humiliation that their Czar had been able to inflict upon them, and the news that he was being escorted as prisoner to the Old Palace brought the guards running to line the route, anxious to avenge themselves, armed with stones and handfuls of filth.

In a plain carriage, Peter the Third, Emperor and Autocrat of all the Russias, whose trembling hand had just signed away his freedom and his birthright, sat huddled in a corner of the vehicle, the tears coursing down his disfigured cheeks, his mouth a little open, staring out at the yelling, cursing soldiery, whose indescribable missiles spattered the walls and windows of the vehicle. Panes of glass had been shattered by stones, and the splinters glittered over the clothes of the passengers.

Peter heard the angry, insulting cries as from a great distance. His mind had gone almost blank within the last few hours; the misery of his return from Kronstadt and the discovery that the dreaded Catherine was advancing on Oranienbaum at the head of a large army, all these things had pressed in upon him until he had startled his mistress by uttering a wierd animal cry of pain and despair, and his meager court had discovered their Emperor prostrate on the floor, crying like a child.

When they lifted him into a chair he had continued to weep and to stare at them, his eyes passing from one to the other, with a terrible childlike look that caused Marshal Münnich to cease in the middle of an admonitory sentence. Then he had held out his arms to Elizabeth Vorontzov and buried his head in her breast.

He was wandering slightly when they brought him the act of abdication and repeated Catherine’s threat.

He had looked at them, his weak mouth opening and closing in the effort to speak, struggling to understand the import of the things they told him, the written characters on the strange document dancing before his eyes.

They wished him to surrender; his only chance was to forego his crown, and finally Peter nodded. He had understood. Catherine wanted his throne; she had always wanted it, while he had not, and perhaps if he gave it to her peaceably she might let him return in time to Holstein and live quietly with his Vorontzova. He signed.

He remembered little of the nightmare that followed this simple action, the entry of Alexis Orlov and his men into the room, the rough separation from his mistress who fought and scratched to protect her lover, the contempt and savage enmity of his captors, led by that fearsome officer with the scarred face.

Throughout the journey to Peterhof he never spoke, but gave his hand to Elizabeth Vorontzov, whose pleas to accompany him had been granted, and clung to her until the carriage stopped and Orlov hustled him into the palace.

There they took away his uniform and Panin, who had advised his death, had a last interview with his former Czar. In later years the count was to recall that day with horror, and the spectacle of Peter as the most pitiable of his life. He, the least sentimental of men, shrank from the visible evidence of grandeur fallen to such depths.

By five o’clock that afternoon a heavily shuttered carriage swept out of the drive and sped away from Peterhof. An escort of soldiers galloped alongside. By a window in the palace Catherine Alexeievna watched it go.

“Apartments are being made ready for the former Emperor in the Schüsselburg,” Panin reported conversationally.

The Empress and her army had returned to St. Petersburg after a triumphal march through the city, and she was now in residence at the Winter Palace. Panin had watched her and waited for a private audience. There was something weighing on her, despite her outward show of gaiety.

The fate of Peter Feodorovitch could not be deferred much longer, and had it been any other woman, Panin would have deplored the laxity which lodged such a dangerous prisoner in a mere fortified house like Ropscha instead of burying him in a dungeon at the Schüsselburg.

But the Empress procrastinated and hedged, saying openly that she had no wish to make her husband’s lot more miserable then she could help, and that his prison must be fitted comfortably for his needs. Curiously, Panin believed her as devoid of spite as she appeared, but then malice or deliberate cruelty were not among her faults.

One thing alone belied this gentle attitude, and that was the refusal of Peter’s last pathetic request for the company of Elizabeth Vorontzov in his banishment. Panin did not believe his royal mistress to be impelled by jealousy, and this single inconsistent act had roused his most acute suspicions. Now he had learned something which had just confirmed them and brought him hurrying to Catherine’s private rooms.

The Empress had sent Alexis Orlov to Ropscha as one of Peter’s guards.…

Catherine Alexeievna was seated at her desk. Panin noted that her usual brilliant complexion was extremely pale and that she played nervously with a quill pen. She regarded him with eyes dark-ringed with strain and for a moment did not speak. The count continued to watch her, a little careless smile on his fat face.

Suddenly the Empress rose and came round her desk towards him. She held a torn sheet of paper in her hand.

“My good friend. Support me in this dreadful hour! This confession has just reached me!” Panin took the parchment and began to read.

“Christus!” he said slowly. “Is it possible?”

Catherine retrieved the paper and began folding it into thin squares. Her hands trembled slightly.

“It is true. I know it is true. He says he killed him in a quarrel. He says that they were playing cards with Peter and that the Czar accused him of cheating. He says that it was done before he realized.… Tell me, Nikita, in God’s name what am I to do?”

Panin eyed her narrowly; suddenly she made his flesh creep with fear.

“You can punish Alexis Orlov,” he said slowly. “You can execute him for the crime of strangling the former Czar.…”

Catherine glared at him in desperation. “That is impossible! I owe everything to him and his brother Gregory. Do you suppose that I dare act against them! I tell you there is nothing I can do. It is abominable! It is a dreadful crime! But as I value my throne and my own life, I dare not punish it. There is no course open to me but to forgive.”

“Then I counsel you to do so privately, for whatever bonds exist between you and these Orlovs, the world will not acknowledge them strong enough to protect your husband’s murderer. Keep this news secret, and by tomorrow I will have a ukase issued from the Senate. We can say Peter Feodorovitch died a natural death.”

That evening the court was received by the Empress as usual, and Catherine danced a minuet with Gregory Orlov before the gaze of an admiring and indulgent crowd, while the Princess Dashkov watched with jealous, uncomprehending eyes these marks of continuous favor by her mistress towards an uncultured boor of lowly ancestry.

All who had witnessed Catherine on that evening agreed later that she had never looked more beautiful or shown greater animation.

Only Panin left the ballroom early, to lie in his bed and ponder the enigma of his sovereign’s innocence or guilt.

The following day St. Petersburg received the news of Peter Feodorovitch’s death from an attack of hemorrhoidal colic.

In the Czarina’s bedroom in the Kremlin all was very quiet. Throughout the day those servants who were not employed in decorating and preparing the palace had been able to witness a magnificent spectacle, enacted not once but several times, as the rehearsal of the Empress’s coronation was repeated for Her Majesty’s satisfaction.

She had spent hour upon hour, weighed down by her heavy robes and immense yellow embroidered cloak, walking under the great canopy, taking measured steps in time to the fanfares and music which had reverberated throughout the ancient halls and galleries of the Old Palace.

In this, as in the smallest detail connected with her realm, only perfection satisfied her.

Now the day was over, the evening’s banquet ended and Catherine Alexeievna had retired to her room.

The Kremlin state-rooms were small compared with the vast imperial palaces of later design, and the building gloomy despite its ornate magnificence.

The walls of Catherine’s bedchamber were very old; they were frescoed in a religious design, and the dim faces of anguished Byzantine saints regarded the Czarina in her beautiful bed. The bed curtains were drawn and a fire burned in one corner of the room, casting a flickering red light over the furniture, gleaming on gold and inlay, the work of long dead hands, the treasures of ancient Muscovy Czars.

Here the women of the Tartar lords had passed their time in strict seclusion; Ivan the Terrible had paced this floor, leaning upon his murderous spiked staff.…

Catherine Alexeievna lay upon her back, her eyes wide open, looking at the ceiling. She stretched slowly, clasping her hands behind her head. That night, for the first time since her accession, the private door leading to her room would not open to admit Gregory Orlov. This night, he, the insatiable lover, whose passion for his mistress assumed aspects of terrifying jealousy, had been forbidden to disburb her, and none but a humble lackey snored on the threshold of her door.

Tomorrow she would made the state journey down the Beautiful Staircase, so aptly named, dressed in her gorgeous robes, and then to the Cathedral of the Assumption where every sovereign of Russia had been crowned since Ivan the Third.

There the magnificent crown of diamonds, specially made to her requirements, would be placed upon her head, and her brow anointed with the consecrated oil. There she would receive the outward signs of an authority already firmly in her grasp, and on this, the eve of her greatest public triumph, Catherine had not wanted Gregory. She had not wanted anyone, neither for companionship nor for love.

Catherine Alexeievna lay awake, watching the firelight playing on the walls, looking back over the past.

A procession of images flitted before her eyes.… Her father and mother, the one dead many years, the other an exile in Paris, living in luxury at the expense of the French king; Elizabeth Petrovna in the flush of youth and beauty, receiving the blushing Princess Augusta of Zerbst, and again Elizabeth, ageing and sick, bedaubed with paint and glittering with jewel’s, advising her nephew’s wife to take the throne. Peter Feodorovitch.…

Quickly Catherine closed her eyes, as if to preserve her sight from a fearful vision, the vision of Alexis Orlov’s terrible muscular hands.

Bestujev had returned to court, promptly released from his Siberian prison, but of all the honors she bestowed upon him the Empress Catherine had decided that power should not be among them.

Panin was her chief minister; Panin who had helped her, and who was dangerous to offend … and she was stronger than Panin. He could never rule her as his old master had ruled Elizabeth Petrovna.

No man should rule her and no woman either, as the presumptuous Princess Dashkov was already learning.

She had so much to do, so many projects to fulfill, and still find time to love, to be a woman to the man she had loaded with riches, with positions and honors, and whom she knew to be dissatisfied with all but the one reward that she would never give him. She owed him her throne and her life, she owed him a hundred things, and to Alexis she owed something more … but she would never marry Gregory.

Tomorrow she would be crowned Catherine the Second, Empress and Autocrat of a vast country, ruler of millions of people, owner of incalculable wealth and power. Her childhood dream was about to be made reality forever. The annals of the history of the world would bear her name, and that was something which belonged to her alone.

Even as Russia belonged to her, and she held that submission in a sacred trust … all those plans with which she had beguiled the long, lonely hours of her marriage, plans for the betterment of her country, for the freeing of the millions of serfs, for building and education—plans lately conceived for conquest and glory, strategies which would enlarge her boundaries.…

The days would scarcely be long enough for the great work with which she would immortalize her people and herself.

In return for the crown she was to receive, she would care for her subjects and nurture them as tenderly and fiercely protective as the maternal namesake they had given her.

Mother and mistress she would be to Russia, and all the waters of the earth and the tumults of the future should never erase the mark nor deaden the memory of her name.

The fire was dying slowly and a line of dark shadow crept up the walls. Catherine Alexeievna closed her eyes to sleep and, all unbidden, conjured into consciousness by some foreshadowing fate, the dark fanatical Lieutenant whose sword knot she still retained among her most treasured mementos of that memorable day, recalled himself to her mind, and looked into her face with burning Oriental eyes.

She stirred a little, sinking deeper into the silken pillows, remembering that Orlov had told her the man’s name during the course of that night march to Peterhof.

For a moment rest eluded her as she struggled irritably to recall it. Then her lips parted in a faint smile. She remembered it, her memory was always excellent, and she murmured it aloud with satisfaction:

“Gregory Potemkin.”

She would not forget it again.

Somewhere within the palace a clock in one of the courtyards began to chime the hour; within a while the sun would begin to rise, flooding the gilded cupolas and towers of Moscow with morning light, and the citizens of Moscow would stir and hurry to their places in the Kremlin square to glimpse the great procession of the crowning of their Empress.

Meanwhile the last flame of the fire in the royal bedroom grate flickered and died into a glowing ash. Within a second this too was extinguished and, in the final darkness before dawn, Catherine Alexeievna fell asleep.