The Updated Memoirs of Princess Dashkova

Chapter 5

The morning made itself scarce to the barracks, little light streaming into the room. I ended up passed out on the couch by Catherine's bed, my neck ached from the awkward angle, my hands tucked under my head. Catherine remained asleep and I could not discern the time, so I sought the hour to write a letter to my dear husband, Mikhail. Once my pen met the unfurled parchment, the words tickled out of me.

Once Catherine rose, we quickly recalibrated into the men's clothes. Again, I marveled at the utility of their attire. A soldier awaited us by the door. His hand shaking as he pulled off his hat respectfully. Orlov walked up to us quickly, the smudge of a smile plucked on his lips, as if my son had smeared on a smile with his pudgy fingers. "It looks good, my queen."

With an entourage of soldiers, we made our way to the Semenovsky Barracks. There was this excitement growing, one familiar to the scribe in pursuit of writing history, one that accompanies greatness, or one that spells victory or defeat.

But the fiercest memory that returns from the trip is the tumble in my stomach as if someone had taken a whisk to my innards. The rest, the clomping of the horses' hooves, the swell of the wind against my skin, the mumble of voices, dissolves into the blurred encases of my mind.

The Semenovsky Barrack was a pale yellow with uniform, rectangular windows across from the famous Semenovsky Bridge. Night had befallen Saint Petersburg, stars like punctured parchment. My legs ached as I adapted to the ground after the steady pattern of the horse.

The silhouette of a hooded figure mired the wooden door. There was a procession towards him. It felt recogniscent of a wedding march, or perhaps a funeral march. The faint sound of a candle striking, then light illuminated his face. The members of the clergy revealed themselves: scrawled apparitions of human. Catherine's hands were tightly clasped in front of her, footsteps rhythmic. As soon as our voices no longer echoed, the priest stepped forward to speak, "Good evening, Grand Duchess Catherine."

She nodded, "Good evening Father."

Then he turned, his shadows a step behind him, in a small grey room. Before, it had slightly vaulted ceilings, streaks of black on the walls: the telltale remembrance of furniture that once stood. After, all of these things were still true, but it was the room where Catherine the Great was crowned the only heir to the Russian throne. Beyond everything else, I remember the shadow of the interim crown on her head as if she was no longer human, a new creature: a Queen.

The hushed festivities after that were indistinct, the vodka like was the culprit of my stilted memory. The merriment continued until the sun became a stubborn reminder of the what the festivities were meant to be rejoicing.

The journey was long, the longest I had ever traveled with a group of this size. Every evening was a party, and every meal was a feast. Catherine remained as confident as I ever saw her, the soldiers took to calling her Queen even though it was premature.

It was the second to last evening from when we arrived that Catherine spoke to the troops again. When we arrive at Orianbeaum, I am ordering you to arrest Peter III. If your lives come into danger, retreat. Your blood will not touch the ground of the Oranienbaum estate." She touched the document in her satchel nervously. I believe I was the only one who knew what it contained, as I had helped draft it myself: a document of abdication, waiting for Peter's signature. The darker, less moral side of me relished the impending look on my sister's face when she realized her beloved king was not to be king any longer.

We arrived there early morning, the castle rising. Catherine stood taller, me to her right, Orlov to our left. "First," she conducted to the servant by the front gate, "take us where you keep your...prisoners." Orlov and I shared a glance. I had assumed we would take care of Potemkin after securing Catherine as Queen, but she was set in her ways. She was always stubborn, her heart guided her more than she would have liked to believe.

Potemkin was gaunt. His uniform looser, it rippled over his shoulders. As soon as the click of the doors sounded behind us. Catherine rushed to him, circling an arm under his, to support him standing.

"Catherine, my queen, long time not see," his voice was ever jovial, but there was a rasp to it now, that I do not think ever faded.

Potemkin turned to make eye contact with us all. "I assume the plan has been put into action." He held his eyes on Orlov as he nodded gravely.

"Well then. It would be my pleasure to hold the sword to Peter's neck as he signs away his throne." His tone was cheerful, but Peter was echoed like a curse word.

Catherine laughed lightly, "You may."

We walked an an odd quadruplet, the queen, the soldier, the poet, and me: the teenage girl at the heart of a coup.

Peter did end up signing the form. The relief on his face as he swirled the last letter lasted for only a moment, but I could see the way his shoulders lightened. Peter, the boy who never intended to be King. I never saw my sister again. When Peter heard of our arrival, he had sent her off. I have not seen her since. This induced a modicum of sadness until I realized it was she, who betrayed Potemkin. Now, years later, I think of her now and again: sometimes just a particular turn of phrase, a pause where our childhood envelopes our silences, where the memory of her swallows me like a wave.