Catherine the Great & Potemkin: The Imperial Love Affair

5

THE WAR HERO

Attacked and out-numbered by the enemy, he was the hero of the victory…

Field-Marshal Count Peter Rumiantsev-Zadunaisky on General Potemkin during the First Russo–Turkish War

‘Your Majesty, The exceptional devotion of Your Majesty for the common good has made our Motherland dear to us,’ wrote Potemkin to the Empress on 24 May 1769. The chivalry in this first surviving letter is framed to state his personal passion for her as explicitly as possible.

It is the duty of the subject to demand obedience to Your wishes from everyone. For my part, I have carried out my duties just as Your Majesty wishes.

I have recognized the fine deeds that Your Majesty has done for our Motherland, I have tried to understand your laws and be a good citizen. However, your mercy towards my person fills me with zeal for the person of Your Majesty. The only way I can express my gratitude to Your Majesty is to shed my blood for Your glory. This war provides an excellent opportunity for this and I cannot live in idleness.

Allow me now, Merciful Sovereign, to appeal at Your Majesty’s feet and request Your Majesty to send me to Prince Prozorovsky’s corps in the Army at the front in whatever rank Your Majesty wishes but without inscribing me in the list of military service for ever, but just for the duration of the war.

I, Merciful Sovereign, have tried to be qualified for Your service; I am especially inclined to cavalry which, I’m not afraid to say, I know in every detail. As regards the military art, I learned the main rule by heart: the best way to achieve great success is fervent service to the Sovereign and scorn for one’s life…You can see my zeal…You’ll never regret your choice.

Subject slave of Your Imperial Majesty,

Grigory Potemkin.¹

The war was indeed the best way for Potemkin to break out of the frustrating routine of the Court and distinguish himself. But it was also to provoke the crises that made the Empress need him. The leaving of Catherine was, paradoxically, to bring him much closer to her.

The First Russo–Turkish War began when Russian Cossacks pursued the rebels of the Confederacy of Bar, a group of Poles opposed to King Stanislas-Augustus and Russian influence in Poland, over the Polish border into the small Tartar town of Balta on what was technically Turkish territory. There the Cossacks massacred Jews and Tartars. France encouraged the Sublime Porte – the Ottoman Government, already threatened by the recent extension of Russian power over Poland – to issue an ultimatum demanding that Russia withdraw from the Commonwealth altogether. The Turks arrested the Russian envoy to Istanbul, Alexei Obreskov, and locked him in the fortress of the Seven Towers, where Suleiman the Magnificent had kept his treasure but which was now a high-class prison, the Turkish Bastille. This was the traditional Ottoman way of declaring war.

Catherine reacted by creating a Council of State, containing her leading advisers, from Panin, Grigory Orlov and Kirill Razumovsky to two Golitsyn cousins and the two Chernyshev brothers, to help co-ordinate the war and act as a policy sounding-board. She also gave Potemkin what he wanted. ‘Our Chamberlain Potemkin must be appointed to the army,’ Catherine ordered her War Minister, Zakhar Chernyshev.² Potemkin headed straight for the army. Within a few days, as a major-general of the cavalry – the military rank equivalent to Court chamberlain – he was reporting to Major-General Prince Alexander Prozorovsky at the small Polish town of Bar.

The Russian army, nominally 80,000 strong, was ordered to win control of the Dniester river, the strategic waterway that flowed from the Black Sea into southern Poland. Access to, and control of, the Black Sea was Russia’s ultimate objective. By fighting down the Dniester, Russian troops hoped to arrive on those shores. Russian forces were divided into two: Potemkin served in the First Army under General Prince Alexander Golitsyn aiming for the fortress of Khotin. The Second under General Peter Alexandrovich Rumiantsev was ordered to defend the southern borders. If all went well in the first campaign, they would fight their way round the Black Sea coast, down the Pruth to the great Danube. If they could cross the Danube into the Turkish provinces of Bulgaria, they could threaten the Sublime Porte in its own capital, Constantinople.

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The Empress was wildly overconfident. ‘My soldiers are off to fight the Turks as if they were going to a wedding!’, she boasted to Voltaire.³ But war is never a wedding – especially not for Russia’s peasant–soldiers. Potemkin himself, whose sole experience of war was the swagger of the Guards life in Petersburg, arrived in the harsh and chaotic world of the real Russian army.

The life of a Russian conscript was so short that it often ended before he had even reached his camp. When they left home for their lifelong service (Potemkin later reduced it to twenty-five years), their families tragically wished them goodbye with laments and dirges as if they were already dead. The recruits were then marched away in columns, sometimes chained together. They endured a grim, brutal trauma, torn away from their villages and families. A modern historian rightly says this experience had most in common with the trans-Atlantic passage of negro slaves. Many died on thousand-verst marches, or arrived so weak at their destination that they soon perished: the Comte de Langeron, a Frenchman in Russian service later that century, estimated that 50 per cent of these recruits died. He graphically described the sadistic regime of beatings and discipline that was designed to keep these serf–soldiers from rebelling against their serfmaster–officers – though it may have been no worse than the cruelty of the Prussian army or the Royal Navy. Like the negro slaves, the Russian soldiers consoled themselves in their own colourful, sacred and warm culture: they earned only 7 roubles 50 kopecks a year (a premier-major’s salary was 300 roubles), while Potemkin, for example, hardly a rich man, had received 18,000 roubles just for his part in the coup. So they shared everything in the soldiers’ commune – the artel – that became their village, church, family, club, kitchen and bank, all rolled into one.⁴ They sang their rich repertoire of songs ‘for five or six hours at a stretch without the slightest break’⁵ (and were later to sing many about Potemkin).

The Russian conscript was already regarded as ‘the finest soldier in the world’, wrote Langeron. ‘He combines all the qualities which go to make a good soldier and hero. He is as abstemious as the Spaniard, as enduring as a Bohemian, as full of national pride as an Englishman and as susceptible to impulse and inspiration as French, Walloons, or Hungarians.’⁶ Frederick the Great was impressed and terrified by Russian courage and endurance during the Seven Years War and coined a word to describe their maniacal ursine savagery – ‘les oursomanes’.⁷ Potemkin served in the cavalry, which had earned its own reputation for bloody bravery, especially since it fought beside Russia’s ferocious irregular light cavalry, the Cossacks.

The Russian army was unique in Europe because, until the American and French Revolutions, armies drilled and fought for kings but not for ideas or nations. Most armies were made up of many nationalities – mercenaries, unwilling recruits and riffraff – who served a flag, not a country. But the Russian army was filled with Russian peasants who were recruited in mass levées from the roughly seven million souls available. This was seen as the reason for their almost mindless bravery.⁸

The officers, either Russian landowners addicted to gambling and debauch, or German, or later, French soldiers of fortune, were notoriously cruel: General Mikhail Kamensky, an extreme example, actually bit his soldiers. But they were also extraordinarily brave.⁹ The characteristics of their peasant chair du cannon – brutality, discipline, self-sufficiency, endurance, patriotism and stoicism in the face of appalling suffering – made the Russian army a formidable fighting force. ‘The Turks are tumbling like ninepins,’ went the Russian saying; ‘but, through the grace of God, our men stand firm, though headless.’¹⁰

Some contemporaries believed that war in the eighteenth century was become less bloody. Certainly, the dynasties of Europe, Habsburgs and Bourbons, at least pretended to fight according to the rules of aristocratic etiquette. But, for the Russians, wars against the Turks were different. After the centuries in which the Moslem Tartars, and then Turks, had threatened Orthodox Russia, the Russian peasant regarded this as a crusade. Havoc – the medieval giving of no quarter – was the order of battle.

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Potemkin had only just arrived in Bar when the phoney war, giving both the unprepared Turks and Russians time to amass their forces, ended abruptly. On 16 June 1769, some 12,000 Tartar horsemen, under the command of the Crimean Khan, the Sultan’s ally, who were raiding the Russian Ukraine, crossed the Dniester and attacked Potemkin’s camp. Even then, the Tartars, armed with lassos and bows and arrows, were a vision from another age but they were the only Turkish forces ready for war. The Tartar Khan, Kirim Giray, a direct descendant of Genghis Khan, was an aggressive and fearless cavalry commander. He was accompanied by Baron de Tott, a French officer seconded to Istanbul to improve the Turkish forces. He has left his account of this medieval expedition – the last of its kind. Five hundred years after Genghis Khan, the Crimean Tartars, the descendants of those Mongol hordes, were still Europe’s finest horsemen. As they swept out of the Crimea through the Ukraine and towards the Russian troops still stationed in southern Poland, they must have looked and sounded as terrifying as their Mongol ancestors. Yet, like most of the irregular cavalry, they were undisciplined and usually too distracted by booty to be much strategic use. But the raid bought the Turks time to build up their armies, which were said to be 600,000 strong.

In his first battle, Potemkin engaged these wild Tartar and Turkish horsemen and repulsed them. He acquitted himself well, for ‘Chamberlain Potemkin’ appears in the list of those who distinguished themselves. This was the beginning of Potemkin’s run of success. On 19 June, he fought again in the Battle of Kamenets and took part in further skirmishing, helping General Golitsyn take Kamenets.¹¹ In St Petersburg Catherine celebrated these minor engagements with a ‘Te Deum’ on Sunday, 19 July, but the vacillating Golitsyn faltered before Khotin. Furious and impatient, in August the Empress recalled him. There are hints that Potemkin, via the Orlovs, played some part in the intrigue that dispensed with Golitsyn.¹² But, if he was laughably slow, Golitsyn was at least lucky. He was opposed by a Grand Vizier, Mehmed Emin, who was happier reading Islamic poetry than slicing off heads. So Catherine was embarrassed when, before her orders had arrived at the front, Golitsyn pulled himself together and crossed the Dniester.

Major-General Potemkin and his cavalry was now in action virtually every day: he distinguished himself again on 30 June and repulsed Turkish attacks on 2 and 6 July. When Golitsyn finally recrossed the Dniester, Potemkin served at the taking of Khotin. He fought heroically with his cavalry on 14 August at the Battle of Prashkovsky and then helped defeat the Moldavanzi-Pasha on the 29th. ‘I am immediately recommending the courage and skill shown in battle by Major-General Potemkin,’ wrote Golitsyn, ‘because until that time our cavalry has never acted with such discipline and courage as it did under the command of the Major-General.’¹³ Potemkin was becoming a war hero.

This praise must have been welcome to Catherine back in the capital. It was far from welcome at the Sublime Porte, where Sultan Mustafa III recalled his Grand Vizier: Emin-Pasha may have lost his mind at the front but, in Ottoman tradition, he lost his head as soon as he got home. These victories were too late for Golitsyn, however, who was consoled with a field-marshal’s baton. The Foreign Minister’s brother, General Peter Ivanovich Panin, assumed command of the Bender army, so that, in September, the First Army was taken over by Peter Rumiantsev. Thus began the command of one of the most glorious generals in the history of Russia, who became Potemkin’s patron – and then his rival.

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The new commander could not have been more different from the twenty-nine-year-old Major-General on his staff. Yet Potemkin respected him immensely. Aged forty-three, Rumiantsev was a tall, thin, fastidious soldier with a biting dry wit – and he was Countess Bruce’s brother. Like his hero Frederick the Great, he ‘loved and respected no one in the world’, but was ‘the most brilliant of all Russian generals, endowed with outstanding gifts’.¹⁴ Again like his hero, Rumiantsev was a severe disciplinarian yet a wonderful conversationalist. ‘I’ve passed days with him tête-à-tête,’ enthused Langeron, ‘and never felt a moment’s boredom.’¹⁵ He amassed a fortune and lived in ‘ancient feudal magnificence’, always displaying the most refined manners of a seigneur. This is unsurprising since he was a living specimen of Petrine history: he was probably Peter the Great’s natural son.^*1

The general had learned his craft fighting Prussia in the Seven Years War, during which even Frederick admired his skill. Catherine appreciated his talent but never quite trusted him and appointed him President of the Little Russian College, a position worthy of his status, but safely distant from Court. He remained unimpressed by Catherine, liked the Russian army’s Prussianized uniforms and wigs, believed in Prussian military discipline – and worked to improve on the Prussian tactics of the Seven Years War. He tended to prefer Germans to Russians.¹⁶

Rumiantsev was a father to his soldiers but a general to his sons. When one visited him after finishing his studies, he asked, ‘Who are you?’, ‘Your son, replied the boy. ‘Yes, how pleasant. You have grown,’ snapped the general. The son asked if he could find a position there and if he could stay. ‘Certainly,’ said his father, ‘you must surely know some officer or other in the camp who can help you out.’¹⁷

Potemkin was always keen to have things both ways – access to the commander and the chance to find glory in the field; chamberlain at Court, general at the front. He wrote to Rumiantsev about ‘the two things on which my service is founded…devotion to my Sovereign and desire for approval from my highly respected commander’.¹⁸ Rumiantsev appreciated his intelligence but also must have known of his acquaintance with the Empress. His demands were granted. As the war entered its second year, Catherine was frustrated by the slowness of Russian success. War in the eighteenth century was seasonal: in the Russian winter, armies hibernated like hedgehogs. Battle with the main Ottoman armies – and the fall of Bender – had to wait for the spring.

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As soon as it was possible, Rumiantsev reassembled his army in several manoeuvrable corps and advanced down the Dniester. Even in freezing January, Potemkin, now sent by Rumiantsev to serve with the corps of General Schtofel’n, was involved in skirmishes, driving off the attacks of Abdul-Pasha. On 4 February, Potemkin helped capture Jurja in a series of daring cavalry raids, defeating 12,000 enemy troops, capturing two cannons and a handful of banners. It was still bitterly cold but he ‘did not spare himself’.¹⁹ At the end of the month, when Rumiantsev’s report was read out at the Council before the Empress, he mentioned ‘the fervent feats of Major-General Potemkin’, who ‘asked me to send him to the corps of Lieutenant-General von Schtofel’n where, as soon as was possible, he distinguished himself both by his courage and by martial skill.’²⁰ The commander recommended Potemkin should be decorated and he received his first medal, the Order of St Anna.

As the Russians marched south after the Turkish army, Potemkin, according to Rumiantsev’s later report, ‘protected the left bank with the troops entrusted to him and repulsed the enemy attacks against him’. On 17 June, the main army forded the Pruth to attack the 22,000 Turks and 50,000 Tartars encamped on the other bank. Meanwhile Major-General Potemkin and the reserves crossed the river three miles downstream and ambushed the Turkish rear. The camp disintegrated; the Turks fled.²¹

Just three days later, Rumiantsev advanced towards a Turkish army of 80,000, comfortably encamped where the River Larga joined the Pruth, while they awaited the arrival of the Grand Vizier and his main army.²²

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Forming up into their squares, on 7 July 1770, Rumiantsev, Potemkin and the Russians stormed the Turkish camp, braced for the wild Turkish charges. This was Potemkin’s first glimpse of an Ottoman army. It was an immense and impressive, noisy vision of silken tents and rickety carts, green banners and swishing horsetails (those Ottoman symbols of power) – sprawling, messy, alive with women and camp-followers and exotic uniforms, as much like a bazaar as an army. The Ottoman Empire was not yet the giant and flabby weakling it was to become in the next century. It was still capable of raising huge forces from its distant pashaliks, from the plains of Mesopotamia and the hills of Anatolia to the Barbary ports and the Balkans: all sent their cannon-fodder when the Sultan raised the banner of the Prophet.

‘The Turks, who pass for blockheads in the art of war, carry it out with a kind of method,’ explained the Prince de Ligne later. The method was to amass teeming armies roughly in a pyramidal formation and then throw them upon the Russians forces in waves of charging cavalry and whooping infantry. Their Janissaries had once formed the most feared infantry in Europe. They were gradually degenerating into a rich and arrogant Praetorian Guard more interested in their trading posts and palace coups than fighting, but they were still proud of their prowess and Islamic fervour: they wore bonnets of red and gold with white shirts, billowing pantaloons and yellow boots and bore scimitars, javelins, muskets.

The best of the Ottoman cavalry were the Tartars and the Spahis, the feudal Turkish horsemen, who leaped on and off their horses to fire their muskets. They wore breastplates embedded with jewels or just bright waistcoats with pantaloons, often leaving their arms bare while bearing curved and engraved sabres, daggers, lances and gem-encrusted pistols. They were so indisciplined that they fought only when they were ready and often mutinied: it was quite common for Janissaries to steal horses and gallop off the battlefield, strike their officers or sell the army’s food for private profit. The mass of the Ottoman armies were unpaid irregulars recruited by Anatolian feudal lords, who were expected to live by plunder. Despite the efforts of French advisers like Baron de Tott, their artillery was way behind that of the Russians and their muskets were outdated. If their marksmanship was admirable, their firing rate was slow.

They wasted much energy in obsolete display. When all was ready, this martial rabble of hundreds of thousands worked themselves up into a fever of religious outrage fuelled with drops of opium.²³ ‘They advance’, Potemkin later reminisced to the Comte de Ségur, ‘like an overflowing torrent.’ He claimed their pyramidal formation was arranged in order of decreasing courage – the ‘bravest warriors, intoxicated with opium’, headed its apex while its base was formed of ‘nothing but’ cowards. The charge, recalled Ligne, was accompanied by ‘frightful howlings, the cries of Allah Allah’. It took a disciplined infantryman to hold his ground. Any captured Russian was instantly beheaded with a cry of ‘Neboisse!’ or ‘Be not afraid!’ – and the heads brandished on the end of pikes. Their religious fever ‘increased in proportion to the danger’.

The Russians solved the problem of the momentum of the Turkish charge by using the square, which could withstand any shrieking onslaught. The Turk was both the ‘most dangerous, and most contemptible, enemy in the world’, wrote Ligne later, ‘dangerous, if they are suffered to attack; contemptible, if we are beforehand with them’. The Spahis or Tartars, ‘humming around us like wasps’, could envelop the Russian squares, ‘curveting, leaping, caracoling, displaying their horsemanship and performing their riding-house croups’ until they exhausted themselves. Then Rumiantsev’s squares, drilled with Prussian precision, protected by their Cossacks and Hussars, and linked together by Jaegers, light, sharpshooting infantry, advanced. Once broken, the Turks either fled like rabbits or fought to the death. ‘Dreadful slaughter’, said Potemkin, was the usual result. ‘The instinct of the Turks renders them dextrous and capable of all kinds of warlike employments…but they never go beyond the first idea, they are incapable of a second. When their moment of good sense…is over, they partake of the madman or the child.’²⁴

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This was what happened when Rumiantsev’s squares stormed the Turkish camp at the Battle of Larga, shrugging off the Turkish charges with stoical endurance and blasts of artillery. Seventy-two thousand Turks and Tartars were forced to evacuate their fortifications and flee. Potemkin, attached to Prince Nikolai Repnin’s corps, commanded the advance guard that attacked the camp of the Crimean Khan and was, according to Rumiantsev, ‘among the first to attack and capture its fortification’. Potemkin was again decorated, this time with the Order of St George, Third Class: he wrote to thank the Empress.²⁵

The new Grand Vizier now advanced with the main Turkish army to prevent the union of the two Russian armies of Rumiantsev and Panin. He crossed the Danube and marched up the Pruth to meet the fleeing troops from the Battle of Larga. On 21 July 1770, only slightly to the south of Larga, Rumiantsev marched his 25,000 troops towards the 150,000 men of the Grand Vizier’s massed Turkish army, which had camped behind triple fortifications near Lake Kagul. Despite the numerical inequality, he decided to attack. Using the lessons and confidence provided by Larga, he formed five squares facing the main Turkish positions. Potemkin and his cavalry defended the army’s transport against ‘the attacks of numerous Tartar hordes and prevented them from…attacking the army’s rear’. As he gave Potemkin this duty, Rumiantsev is supposed to have told him: ‘Grigory Alexandrovich, bring us our provisions, balanced on the top of your sabre.’²⁶

The Turks, who had learned nothing from Larga, were completely surprised, fought savagely for the whole day but were finally routed in scenes of desperate carnage, leaving 138 guns, 2,000 prisoners, and 20,000 dead on the field. Rumiantsev brilliantly exploited his victory by pushing down towards the lower Danube: on 26 July Potemkin helped Repnin take the fortress of Izmail, then that of Kilia on 10 August. General Panin stormed Bender on 16 September, and Rumiantsev finally closed his campaign with the taking of Brailov on 10 November.²⁷ There was one more magnificent piece of news.

Catherine had sent the Russian Baltic Fleet, proud creation of Peter the Great, across the North Sea, through the English Channel and the Straits of Gibraltar all the way to hit the Turkish rear in the eastern Mediterranean. Its admiral was Count Alexei Orlov, who had never been to sea, but its real lights were two Scottish officers, John Elphinstone and Samuel Greig. Despite Peter the Great’s brave attempts to inspire sea-legs in Russian ploughmen, only the Livonians or Estonians took to the ocean. There were few Russian officers and most of them were lamentable. When Elphinstone grumbled, Catherine replied: ‘The ignorance of the Russians is due to youth; that of the Turks to decrepitude.’²⁸ England helped the Russian expedition: London did not yet regard the Turk as a natural ally or the ‘Bear’ as a natural enemy. The ‘Eastern Question’ had not yet been asked. On the contrary, France was England’s enemy, Turkey a French ally. By the time the leaky Russian fleet reached England, 800 sailors were ill. These seasick Russian peasants must have been an incongruously pathetic sight as they re-rigged, watered and recovered in Hull and Portsmouth.

After gathering at their base, Leghorn (Livorno) in Tuscany, Orlov’s fleet finally reached Ottoman waters. It failed to raise a rebellion among the tricky Greeks and Montenegrins and then indecisively engaged the Turkish fleet off Chios. The Turks withdrew to the deceptive safety of Chesme harbour. Samuel Greig arranged a fiery lullaby for the sleeping Turks. Overnight on 25/26 June, his fireships floated into the harbour of Chesme. This ‘ingenious ambuscade’ turned the harbour into an inferno. ‘Encumbered with ships, powder and artillery,’ Chesme, wrote Baron de Tott, watching from the Turkish side, ‘soon became a volcano that engulfed the whole naval force of the Turks’.²⁹ Eleven thousand Turks perished. Alexei Orlov boasted to Catherine that the water of Chesme was stained incarnadine, and the victorious Empress passed this macabre and distinctly unEnlightened vision on to an excited Voltaire.³⁰ It was the most disastrous day for Turkish arms since the Battle of Lepanto.

When news of Chesme reached St Petersburg, so soon after the glories of Kagul, the Russian capital exploded with joy. There were ‘Te Deums’ and rewards for every sailor in the fleet inscribed simply: ‘I was there.’ Catherine rewarded Rumiantsev for Kagul with his field-marshal’s baton and the construction of an obelisk in her park at Tsarskoe Selo, while Alexei Orlov got the title of Chesmensky (‘of Chesme’). It was the greatest array of Russian triumphs since Poltava. Catherine was riding high – especially in Europe: Voltaire actually jumped up and down on his sickbed at Ferney and sang at the thought of so many dead infidels.³¹

Potemkin had covered himself in glory in this year of Russian victories and decided to capitalize on his new success. When operations ceased in November 1770, he asked Rumiantsev for leave to go to St Petersburg. Had someone raised his hopes that Catherine would receive him with open arms? Afterwards, Potemkin’s enemies claimed that Rumiantsev was relieved to be rid of him. But he actually admired Potemkin’s brains and military record, and approved this trip, charging him to protect the interests of himself and his army. His letters to his protégé were as paternal as Potemkin’s to him were filial.

Potemkin returned to Petersburg with the prestige of a war hero and Rumiantsev’s enthusiastic recommendations: ‘This officer of great ability can make far-sighted observations about the land which has been the theatre of war, which deserve your Majesty’s attention and respect and, because of this, I’m entrusting him with all the events that have to be reported to Her Majesty.’³²

The Empress, in an exultant mood after Kagul and Chesme, welcomed him warmly: we know from the Court Journal that he was invited to dine with Catherine eleven times during his short stay.³³ Legend says there was a private audience at which Potemkin could not resist more dramatics on bended knee. He and Catherine agreed to correspond, apparently through her librarian Petrov and trusted Chamberlain Ivan Perfilevich Yelagin – useful allies around the Empress. We know little of what happened behind closed doors but one senses that they felt the stirrings of something that both knew could become serious.^*2 Whether the private state of Catherine’s relationship with Grigory Orlov himself was already shaky, Count Alexei Orlov-Chesmensky had increased the family credit at Court. Potemkin was too early to displace Grigory Orlov, but the trip was not wasted.³⁴

Grigory Orlov certainly noticed Potemkin’s welcome and made sure he returned to the army. Potemkin went back late in February, bearing a letter from Orlov to Rumiantsev in which the favourite recommended Potemkin and asked his commander to be his ‘tutor and guide’. This was a benign way for Orlov to remind his younger rival of his place, but also a sign that he had become much more important on that trip to Petersburg. He was marked.³⁵

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Within weeks, the fighting had started again. But, compared to the feats of the year before, 1771 was to be a disappointment in the theatre of Moldavia and Wallachia, today’s Rumania, where Potemkin served. When the Turks sensibly refused to endure any more of Rumiantsev’s battles, the Field-Marshal spent the year attacking Turkish positions on the lower Danube, pushing into Wallachia. Potemkin did well: given the task of holding the Kraovsky region, he ‘not only repulsed the enemy…but struck at him too. He was the first to head across the Danube.’ On 5 May, he pulled off a minor coup when he attacked the small town of Zimbry on the other side of the Danube, ravaged it, burned enemy provisions and stole the ships of their flotilla, which he brought back to the Russian side of the river. On 17 May, Potemkin defeated and pursued 4,000 Turks near the Ol’ta river – ‘a glorious and famous feat’, according to Rumiantsev, ‘achieved only thanks to Potemkin’s skill and courage’. The Turks attacked him on 27 May but were defeated and driven off. He joined up with Repnin again, and together they drove off a powerful Turkish corps under a seraskier (Turkish equivalent of a field-marshal) on 10 June and then took³⁶ Bucharest.

Some time after this fighting advance, Potemkin was struck down by a dangerous fever, which was endemic in the summer months in these Danubian principalities. It was so serious that ‘only his strong constitution allowed him to recover because he would not accept any help from doctors’, wrote Samoilov. Instead, the prone general put himself in the hands of two Zaporogian Cossacks, whom he charged to take care of him and spray him with cooling water. He had always been interested in the exotic peoples of the Empire – hence his position at the Legislative Commission – but this is our first hint of his special friendship with the Cossacks. He studied the culture of his Cossacks and admired their freedom and joie de vivre. They nicknamed him ‘Gritsko Nechosa’, or ‘Grey Wig’, after the peruke he sometimes wore, and invited him to become an honorary Cossack. A few months later, on 15 April 1772, he wrote to their Hetman to ask for admittance into this martial order. Entered into the lists of the Zaporogian Host in May that year, he wrote to the Hetman: ‘I am delighted.’³⁷

Potemkin had recovered by the time the army crossed the Danube and made a thrust towards the key Turkish fortress of Silistria, which commanded a stretch of the Danube. It was here that Potemkin won the undying hostility of Count Simon Romanovich Vorontsov, a young scion of the family that had reached its peak under Peter III. Born in 1744, the cultured Vorontsov, son of a notoriously corrupt provincial governor (nicknamed Big Pocket), nephew of Peter III’s Chancellor, had been arrested during the coup for supporting Peter III, but he later made a name for himself as the first officer in to the Turkish trenches at Kagul. Like all Vorontsovs, this pudding-faced Anglophile had a marked appreciation of his own credentials but was rightly regarded by Catherine and Potemkin as politically unreliable and spent most of his career in honourable exile as Ambassador to London. Now, outside Silistria, he had to face the indignity of having his Grenadiers rescued from 12,000 Turkish cavalry by a reluctant Potemkin.

Six days later, Potemkin was in turn saved by Vorontsov: ‘not only did we cover him, but we chased those Turks into town’, using three batteries of artillery, and killing ‘lots’. Vorontsov, writing in 1796, cited both fights as evidence of his own virtuosity and Potemkin’s incompetence. Both found it intolerable to be saved by the other. The malice was perfectly symmetrical.³⁸

Silistria did not fall, the army reforded the Danube and there ended Rumiantsev’s tepid campaign. The real action that June was the successful invasion of the weakened Khanate of the Crimea – its army was away on the Danube, facing Rumiantsev – by the Second Army, now commanded by Prince Vasily Dolgoruky.

Catherine was learning that glory was not as quick or cheap as she hoped. The bottomless maw of the army demanded more and more recruits. The harvests were bad. Soldiers’ pay was in arrears. Fever ravaged the army while rashes of bubonic plague broke out across the Ottoman Empire. The Russians feared it would spread through the southern armies. It was time to talk peace with the Ottomans before they forgot Chesme and Kagul. Then, in September 1771, terrible news arrived from Moscow.

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The plague descended with ghastly intensity on the old capital. In August, the toll was reaching 400 to 500 deaths a day. It was not long before order in the city evaporated. The nobles fled; officials panicked; the Governor abandoned his post; and Moscow became a surreal charnel house, scattered with rotting cadavers, stinking bonfires of flesh and rumours of miracles, curses and conspiracies. In the abandoned city, the streets were patrolled by desperate crowds of peasants and workers who increasingly placed their hopes in a miracle-working icon.³⁹

The last effective authority, Bishop Ambrosius, ordered the icon to be removed to reduce the risk of infection among the crowds who flocked to invoke its miraculous powers. The mob rioted and tore the Bishop to pieces. This was the same Bishop Ambrosius who had lent Potemkin the money to make the trip to St Petersburg. As Russia suffered the strain of the huge cost of war, the mob took control. There was a real danger that the plague might unleash something even worse – a peasant uprising in the countryside. The death toll kept rising.

Grigory Orlov, restless since Catherine gave him no chance to prove himself, offered to travel to Moscow and sort out the situation. On 21 September 1771, he set off. By the time he arrived, 21,000 people were dying every month. Orlov displayed common sense, competence, energy and humanity. He worked tirelessly. Just showing his cherubic countenance and lofty figure around the city reassured the people. He burned 3,000 old houses where the infection could linger, disinfected 6,000 more, founded orphanages, reopened the public baths closed in the quarantine, and spent over 95,000 roubles distributing food and clothing. His Herculean efforts restored order in this Augean Stable. When he departed on 22 November, deathrates were falling – probably thanks to the cold, but the state was once again in control of Moscow. He reached Petersburg on 4 December to popular acclaim. Catherine built one of her arches in his honour in her Tsarskoe Selo park, which was dotted with monuments to her triumphs. She even struck a commemorative medal. It seemed that the Orlovs, that race of heroes, as Voltaire called them, were secure.⁴⁰

When the Turkish talks began the next year, Catherine gave Grigory Orlov the enormous responsibility of negotiating peace. Catherine saw him off in a costume she had given him, embroidered and diamond-studded on every seam. The sight of him inspired her again. ‘Count Orlov’, she gushed to Madame Bielke, ‘is the handsomest man of his generation.’⁴¹

—

As Orlov left St Petersburg, was Potemkin arriving there to help Catherine with her latest crisis? His precise activities during these months are mysterious. But, some time during the truce with Turks, he certainly visited St Petersburg again.

Orlov’s departure for the south precipitated another plot against the Empress which also helped Potemkin. Between thirty and a hundred noncommissioned officers in the Preobrazhensky Guards mutinied. They believed Orlov was travelling to ‘the army to persuade them to swear allegiance to him’ and make himself ‘Prince of Moldavia and Emperor’. Their mission was Catherine’s ever present nightmare: to overthrow her and enthrone her son Paul as emperor. The plot was foiled but, as Paul approached his majority, Catherine was understandably nervous.⁴² The Swedish diplomat Ribbing wrote to his Court in July that Catherine had withdrawn to an estate in Finland, to decide what measures to take, accompanied by Kirill Razumovsky, Ivan Chernyshev, Lev Naryshkin – and Potemkin.⁴³ The first names required no explanation – she had trusted them for almost twenty years. But the presence of Potemkin, still only thirty-one, is unexpected. It is his first mention as a close adviser of the Empress. Even if the Swede was mistaken, it still suggests that Potemkin was in Petersburg and already much closer to Catherine than anyone realized.

There are more hints that he was already privately advising her, if not making love to her, much earlier than previously thought. When she summoned him in late 1773, she told him that he was ‘already [author’s italics] very close to our heart’.⁴⁴ In February 1774, she told him that she regretted not starting their relationship ‘a year and a half ago’⁴⁵ – in other words, in 1772. It was now she started to fall for him.

Then, two months later, when Grigory Orlov opened talks with the Turks in Fokshany in faraway Moldavia, Potemkin, according to Samoilov,⁴⁶ was at the talks, behaving in the manner for which he would later become famous. As Orlov negotiated, Potemkin supposedly spent the hours lazing on a sofa in his dressing gown, plunged in thought. This sounds just like him. It was natural that he and his troops would be in the area along with the rest of the army. Rumiantsev was there of course. Potemkin was presumably in his entourage, but he must have had Catherine’s blessing to lounge in the midst of an international peace conference, chaired by the suspicious Orlov. Did Catherine send Potemkin to watch Orlov? Why else would Orlov have tolerated him?

The real story is why Orlov himself was there at all: he had neither diplomatic experience nor the temperament for the job. It emerged that Catherine had her own private reasons to remove him from St Petersburg, yet would she really have risked the peace conference merely to get him out of the capital? Admittedly he was assisted by the experienced Obreskov, the Russian Ambassador to the Sublime Porte, recently freed from the Seven Towers. But Orlov was scarcely suited to the tortuous horse-trading that the Turks regarded as good manners.

Then he argued with Rumiantsev. Orlov wanted to start the war again; Rumiantsev, who knew that recruits were few, disease rampant and money short, did not. The Field-Marshal’s fastidious intelligence gave him the acuteness of an ice-pick. This must have riled the easygoing giant, who was far out of his depth. Finally, he lost his temper in mid-session and, to the astonishment of the Turkish plenipotentiaries, threatened to hang Rumiantsev himself. The Turks, who still regarded themselves as the receptacles of all that was elegant and civilized, no doubt shook their heads at these manifestations of Slavic barbarism. But the issues at risk there were extremely complicated and becoming more so by the day. Catherine was determined that the Turks should agree to the independence of the Crimea from Turkish sovereignty. The Crimea, suspended from the continent like a diamond from a belly dancer’s navel, dominated the Black Sea. The Turks claimed it as their ‘pure and immaculate virgin’ – the Sultan’s lake. Catherine’s proposal would remove Turkey from direct control of the northern coast of the Black Sea, except for its fortresses, and bring Russia one step closer to Peter the Great’s foiled dream of controlling its power and commerce.

Meanwhile Prussia and Austria were becoming restless at the Russian successes: acquisitive, ruthless Frederick the Great was jealous that his Russian ally might gain too much Ottoman territory. Austria, hostile to Prussia and Russia, secretly negotiated a defensive treaty with the Turks. Prussia wanted some compensation for being a loyal ally to Russia; Austria wanted a reward for being a thoroughly disloyal one to Turkey. Whatever they said, Russia and Prussia both looked longingly at the helpless chaos of Poland. Austria’s Empress – Queen, Maria Theresa, balked at this thievery – yet, as Frederick the Great put it, ‘she wept, but she took’. Picturesque, feeble and self-destructive Poland was like an unlocked bank from which these imperial brigands could steal what they wished to pay for their expensive wars, satisfy their greed and ease their jealousy of each other. Austria, Prussia and Russia negotiated the First Partition of Poland, leaving Catherine free to enforce her demands on Turkey.

Just when the Polish partition was all but agreed, Sweden, Turkey’s traditional ally, stepped in to spoil the party. Over the years, Russia had spent millions of roubles on bribes to ensure that Sweden remain a limited monarchy, split between the French and Russian parties. But in August 1772 its new young King, Gustavus III, restored absolutism in a coup. He encouraged the Turks to fight on. So, back in Fokshany, Orlov became tired of the Turks’ intransigence over his demand for Crimean independence. Whether it was the complexity of the diplomacy, the minutiae of Turkish etiquette or the presence of Potemkin, yawning in his dressing gown on the sofa, Orlov now delivered an ultimatum to the Turks that ruined the conference. The Turks walked out.

Orlov had other things on his mind: the Court was in crisis. Suddenly on 23 August, without awaiting orders, he abandoned the conference and headed for Petersburg as fast as his horses would carry him. Potemkin, if he still lay on the sofa as Orlov galloped away, would have been even deeper in thought than usual.

—

Grigory Orlov was stopped at the gates of St Petersburg at the express order of the Empress. He was ordered, for reasons of quarantine, to proceed to his nearby estate of Gatchina.

Just a few days before, on 30 August, a good-looking ensign in the Horse-Guards, Alexander Vassilchikov, aged twenty-eight, was formally appointed adjutant-general to the Empress and moved into a Winter Palace apartment. Courtiers knew that they had been lovers for a month. After being introduced to Vassilchikov, at the behest of Nikita Panin, Catherine had watched him closely. At Tsarskoe Selo, when he escorted her carriage, she presented him with a gold snuff-box engraved ‘For the good bearing of the bodyguards’, an unusual reward for sentry duty. On 1 August, he was appointed gentleman of the bedchamber.⁴⁷

When Catherine heard that Grigory Orlov was on his way from Fokshany, she was alarmed but also furious, because his abandonment of the already tottering talks exposed her love life to the gaze of the cabinets of Europe. Indeed the foreign ambassadors were confused: they had presumed Orlov was Catherine’s partner for life. They were used to the balance between Panins and Orlovs, now allied to the Chernyshev brothers. No one knew the political effects of the arrival of Vassilchikov, except that the Orlovs were in decline and the Panins were in the ascendant.

Orlov and Catherine had drifted apart for a couple of years: we do not know exactly why. She was now forty and he thirty-eight: perhaps they both longed for younger partners. He had never really shared her intellectual interests. Politically she trusted him and they had been through much together: they shared a son. But Orlov had his intellectual limits – Diderot, who later met him in Paris, thought he was like ‘a boiler always boiling but never cooking anything’. Perhaps Potemkin’s company made Orlov’s uncomplicated solidity less attractive to Catherine. Yet it is a mystery why she did not choose Potemkin to replace him. Perhaps after years of repaying her debt to Orlov and his family, she was not yet ready for Potemkin’s dominant and eccentric character. Later, she regretted not summoning him at once.

On the very day that Orlov departed for the south, she later told Potemkin, somebody revealed to her the extent of his infidelities. It was then Catherine admitted that Orlov ‘would have remained for ever, had he not been the first to tire’. This is usually taken at face value but she must at least have suspected his peccadilloes for years. His omnivorous sexual appetites were common knowledge among the ambassadors. ‘Anything is good enough for him,’ Durand claimed. ‘He loves like he eats – he is as happy with a Kalmyk or a Finnish girl as with the prettiest girl at Court. That’s the sort of oaf he is.’ Whatever the real reason, the Empress decided she ‘could no longer trust him’.⁴⁸

Catherine negotiated a full settlement with Orlov with a generosity that was to be her lodestar in love: he received an annual pension of 150,000 roubles, 100,000 roubles to set up his household, and the neo-Classical Marble Palace, then under construction, 10,000 serfs, all sorts of other treasures and privileges – and two silver services, one for ordinary use and one for special occasions.⁴⁹ In 1763, the Holy Roman Emperor Francis, Maria Theresa’s consort, had granted him the title prince of the Holy Roman Empire. The title prince, or kniaz in Russian, existed in Russia only among the descendants of ancient royal houses.^*3 If eighteenth-century tsars wished to raise someone to prince, they requested the Holy Roman Emperor to create him an imperial prince. Now Catherine allowed her ex-lover to use his title.

In May 1773, Prince Orlov returned to court and resumed his official positions, though Vassilchikov remained favourite – and Potemkin was left, impatiently suspended in limbo.⁵⁰

—

It must have been a disappointed Potemkin who returned to the war. At least Catherine promoted him to lieutenant-general on 21 April 1773. The old establishment was envious. ‘The promotion of Potemkin is for me a pill I cannot swallow’, wrote Simon Vorontsov to his brother.⁵¹ ‘When he was a lieutenant of the Guards, I was already a colonel and he has certainly served less than me…’.⁵² Vorontsov decided to resign the moment the campaign was over. There is a feeling of exhaustion and reluctance about this frustrating, bad-tempered campaign, even among the veterans of Rumiantsev’s victories. There was another attempt to negotiate, this time in Bucharest. But the moment had passed.

Once again, Rumiantsev’s tired army, now down to just 35,000 men, struck across the Danube at the obstinate fortress of Silistria. Potemkin ‘was the first to open the campaign in the severe winter with his march to the Danube’, reported the Field-Marshal, ‘and the organizing of a series of raids across to the other bank of the river with his reserve corps. When the army approached the Danube crossing and when the enemy in great numbers of people and artillery consolidated on the opposite bank on the Gurabalsky hills to prevent our passage’, Potemkin, continued Rumiantsev, ‘was the first to get across the river on the boats and to land his forces against the enemy’. The new Lieutenant-General captured the Ottoman camp on 7 June. But Potemkin was already marked as a coming man: a fellow general, Prince Yuri Dolgoruky, another of that ubiquitous clan, claimed that ‘timid’ Potemkin ‘never kept order’ during the river crossings and was respected by Rumiantsev only because of his ‘connections at Court’. Yet Dologoruky’s memoirs are notoriously untrustworthy. The demanding Rumiantsev – and his fellow officers – admired and liked Potemkin – and valued him highly during this campaign.⁵³

Silistria’s ‘very strong’ garrison made a powerful sortie against Potemkin. On 12 June, not far from Silistria, he repelled another attack, according to Rumiantsev, taking the enemy artillery. Rumiantsev’s forces approached the familiar walls of Silistria. On 18 June, Lieutenant-General Potemkin, ‘in command of the advance corps, overcame all the biggest difficulties and dangers, driving the enemy away from the fortifications before the town’. On 7 July, he defeated a Turkish corps of 7,000 cavalry. Even in the arms of Vassilchikov, indeed especially in his worthy but dull company, Catherine did not forget Potemkin: when she told Voltaire that June about the strike across the Danube, she mentioned Potemkin’s name for the first time. She was missing him.⁵⁴

As summer turned to autumn, Potemkin supervised the building of batteries of artillery on the island opposite Silistria. The weather was deteriorating; the Turks showed every sign that they were not going to give up Silistria. ‘Tormented by the severity of the weather and the sallies of the enemy’, Potemkin ‘carried out all the necessary actions to bombard the town, causing fear and damage’.⁵⁵ When the Russians did penetrate the walls, the Turks fought street by street, house by house. Rumiantsev withdrew. The weather was now freezing. Potemkin’s batteries went back to bombarding the fortress.

At this tense and uncomfortable moment, an imperial courier arrived in Rumianstev’s camp with a letter for Potemkin. Dated 4 December, it speaks for itself:

Sir! Lieutenant-General and Chevalier, you are probably so absorbed by gazing at Silistria that you have no time to read letters and though I do not as yet know whether your bombardment was successful, I am sure that every one of your deeds is done out of zeal for me personally and out of service for our beloved Motherland.

But, since on my part I am most anxious to preserve fervent, brave, clever and talented individuals, I beg you to keep out of danger. When you read this letter, you may well ask yourself why I have written it. To this, I reply: I’ve written this letter so that you should have confirmation of my way of thinking about you, because I have always been your most benevolent,

Catherine.⁵⁶

In the filthy, freezing and dangerous discomfort of his benighted camp beneath Silistria, this letter must have seemed like a communication from Mount Olympus, and that is what it was. It does not read like a passionate love letter written in a hurry. On the contrary, it is an arch, cautious and carefully drafted declaration that says much and yet nothing. It did not invite Potemkin to the capital, but it is obviously a summons, if not what is popularly known as a ‘come-on’. One suspects he already knew Catherine’s ‘way of thinking’ about him – that she was already in love with the man who had loved her for over a decade. They were already corresponding – hence Catherine implied that Potemkin had not bothered to answer all her letters. His moody insouciance in ignoring imperial letters must have made him all the more attractive, given the sycophantic reverence which surrounded Catherine. The excited Potemkin understood this as the long-awaited invitation to Petersburg.

Moreover, Catherine’s fear for Potemkin’s life was not misplaced. Rumiantsev now had to extract his army from its messy operations at Silistria and get it safely across the Danube. Potemkin was given the honour of the most dangerous role in this operation: ‘When the main part recrossed back over the river,’ remembered Rumiantsev, ‘he was the last to do so because he covered our forces on the enemy’s bank.’⁵⁷ Nonetheless, it would probably be an understatement to say Potemkin was in a hurry to reach the capital.

Potemkin’s critics, such as Simon Vorontsov and Yuri Dolgoruky, mostly writing after his death when it was fashionable to denounce him, claimed he was an incompetent and a coward.⁵⁸ Yet, as we have seen, Field-Marshals Golitsyn and Rumiantsev acclaimed his exploits well before he rose to power, and other officers wrote to their friends about his daring, right up until Silistria. Rumiantsev’s report described Potemkin as ‘one of those military commanders who extolled the glory…of Russian arms by courage and skill’. What is the truth?

Rumiantsev’s complimentary report to Catherine was written after Potemkin’s rise in 1775 and was therefore bound to exaggerate his achievements – but Rumiantsev was not the sort of man to lie. So Potemkin performed heroically in the Turkish War and made his name.

As soon as the army was in winter quarters, he dashed for St Petersburg. His impatience was noticed, suspected and analysed by the many observers of Court intrigues, who asked one another – ‘Why so hastily?’⁵⁹

Skip Notes

*1 Rumiantsev’s mother was born in 1699 and lived to be eighty-nine. The grandest lady-in-waiting at Court had known the Duke of Marlborough and Louis XIV, remembered Versailles and the day St Petersburg was founded. She liked to boast until her dying day that she was Peter the Great’s last mistress. The dates certainly fitted: the boy was named Peter after the Tsar. His official father, yet another Russian giant, was a provincial boy who became a Count, a General-en-Chef and one of Peter the Great’s hard men: he was the ruffian sent to pursue Peter’s fugitive son, the Tsarevich Alexei, to Austria and bring him back to be tortured to death by his father.

*2 Catherine, in one of the undated love letters usually placed at the official start of their affair in 1774, tells Potemkin that a nameless courtier, perhaps an Orlov ally, has warned her about her behaviour with him and asked permission to send him back to the army, to which she agrees.

*3 Peter the Great did make his favourite Prince Menshikov, but that was an exception. After 1796, Emperor Paul and his successors began to create princes themselves so promiscuously that they ultimately caused an inflationary glut in the prestige of that title.