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My hazardous overland journey saved me but one week. A British ship made port at the dockyards today. I was there as it cut through the icy harbor, the first ship of the season. All about me was praise for England’s mastery of the sea. I pray that Catherine will not be so enamored with King George’s vessels. His Majesty’s offer to provide Russia with a deepwater navy, in exchange for twenty thousand Russian soldiers, could be paid quite easily by the Tsarina. God help my country if she agrees. |
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St. Petersburg is almost in sight. Wolves and weather have chased us, but tomorrow we will win the race. My traveling companion, Gorlov, says he can almost taste the fine Russian vodka he has missed for so long. And so it is surprising that in the very shadow of the Tsarina’s throne we find ourselves in gravest danger. On the road today we saw a small village burned to the ground. Peasants in these woods fear bands of marauding Cossacks, led by a chieftain who wears the head of a wolf as a cap. These Cossacks sow the seeds of civil war. They oppose the rule of the monarch. I fear them. They are so much like me. |
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Tonight, I attended a magnificent ball at Catherine’s Winter Palace, a feast for all the senses. Sparkling light, crystal and silver, savory food, music and dancing, a common occurrence for a monarch, perhaps, but a unique experience for a farmboy from Virginia. But the joy of tonight’s luxuries has already begun to dim. Tonight, the difficulty of my mission also became clear. Catherine’s favourite, Potemkin, will be one obstacle. Her gauntlet of court women, the provers, will be another. |
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Although it sounds strange, I now live in a White Goose. Gorlov and I have rented rooms in the tavern by that name in St. Petersburg’s German Quarter. It is the home to mercenaries from all over Europe. The company is rough and the accommodations are not much finer. In a city of some hundred thousand souls, I am as lonely as a man can be. Even Gorlov, my truest friend, does not know of my true mission. |
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Today, I paid another call to Monsieur Dubois at his mansion in the city. The French Ambassador is a friend of my patron, Benjamin Franklin, whose letter of introduction set me in good stead. The good Dr. Franklin has written his name into history as a scientist, publisher, and statesmen. Now he asks me to help with his work as a champion of liberty. Friends like the Ambassador, indeed allies of any sort, are hard to find in this city. On the other hand, beautiful women are not. Dubois’ daughter is one of several women in Catherine’s court who stole my glance today. |
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