Rebel Princess (30 page)

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.