Chapter 109: Declaration of War (3) February 1791. Russian Empire. Imperial capital Saint Petersburg, Hermitage (Эpмитáж) Winter Palace.
The Hermitage Winter Palace, its walls painted lime-green, shone again today—as if to prove that it truly lived up to the name of Saint Petersburg, the city of white nights—showing off its brilliant figure to all the citizens of Saint Petersburg, adorned with pure-white columns and luxurious gold leaf.
But unlike its beautiful exterior, the inside of the Winter Palace was anything but.
"Catherine Tsar, who receives the praise of all the world—please, I beg you, reconsider just once more!"
A man counted as the next head of the noble State Council.
Duke Ivan Andreyevich Osterman bowed his head toward the sixty-two-year-old Empress before him and pleaded earnestly.
But the Empress only snorted.
"I do not wish to hear it. My will is already firm. If we leave those traitorous rabble in France alone, the serfs will read and write, and later they will even start prattling about politics. We must trample the sprout now."
Duke Osterman bowed once more and spoke again.
"Your Majesty, however, the war with the Ottoman Turks is still raging across the Crimean Peninsula region! To open a second front now will greatly harm the national strength of our Russian Empire—!"
"I already said I do not wish to hear it! Duke Ivan Osterman—do you, too, mean to insult me like that traitor Pugachev? Or do you intend to pull me down as well, as that Frenchman named Guillaume pulled down his king twice?"
"N-never, Your Majesty Tsar! This subject has committed disloyalty!"
At the sight of Duke Osterman shouting with his head lowered, the wily sixty-two-year-old fox narrowed her eyes briefly and replied in a low voice.
"…Very well. I am tired now, so leave. This audience is over."
"As you command! Catherine Tsar, Your Majesty."
In the end, the Duke could not bend the Empress's unshakable absolute power, and had no choice but to trudge out of the Gold Picture Room—out of the Hermitage Winter Palace.
"H-how did it go, Duke Osterman? Did the Tsar relent?"
"Will she truly declare war?"
"Duke, please tell us at once!"
The moment Duke Osterman emerged from the palace, countless people swarmed him with questions.
"…The Tsar has not withdrawn her resolve."
Duke Osterman shut his eyes, shook his head, and spoke to the gathered nobles.
"H-huh…"
"My heavens…"
"What are we to do… what are we…"
Every last one of the nobles clutched their heads and bit their lips.
"…Since I failed to turn the Tsar's will, there is no help for it now. Send word to General Aleksandr Suvorov."
"General Suvorov? But General Suvorov is already out on the Ottoman front."
"And he is the Tsar's trusted favorite. General Suvorov will also think a war with France is absurd. There is nothing left for us but for the General to plead directly to the Tsar."
When Osterman finished, the nobles beside him nodded one after another in agreement.
After Pugachev's rebellion, the Tsar's obsession with power was growing worse by the day—who besides Suvorov, who had suppressed that rebellion, could dare run against the Tsar's temper?
February 1791. Odessa, Fortress of Izmail. Russian Imperial Army Black Sea Direction Headquarters.
On the flagpole of the Izmail fortress—where the Ottoman Turkish crescent banner had flown until not long ago—Russia's double-headed eagle now flew.
And beneath that double-headed eagle, inside the building used as the Russian command headquarters, Russian continued to ring out.
"General, please tell the Tsar! If we open a two-front war from here, it is certain Russia's strength will not endure it!"
"…A soldier does not involve himself in politics."
The veteran general—sixty-two, yet still keeping a solid physique—waved off the envoy's words.
"A war with France? We haven't even fully beaten the Ottomans yet—how would we even reach France, and where would we raise the soldiers?"
"I am a soldier who meets the Empire's and the Tsar's enemies with a bayonet. I am not an administrator who fights numbers—much less a politician who fights with words."
"General Suvorov!"
"I've said what I have to say. I wish you a safe return to Saint Petersburg."
"General, please! Please reconsider! General!"
"Men. Escort this gentleman safely to the capital."
With a crook of Suvorov's finger, the soldiers who had been watching seized the envoy's arms and began dragging him by force toward the outside of the fortress.
"Politicking types—always so talkative. Isn't that right, Kutuzov?"
The old general turned his head and spoke to the middle-aged general seated beside him.
"Mm."
"What is it, Kutuzov? Are you afraid of France, like those lot?"
"It's not so much the French army I fear as the long road to get there."
The forty-six-year-old middle-aged general, wearing epaulettes with two stars set in, nodded as he spoke.
"That's why I told you long ago to lose some weight. You get so wide, and then the long road scares you! Look at me—at this age, I'm the commander-in-chief, yet every morning I run drills with the soldiers, and do conditioning with them, so I'm this solid, aren't I?"
"…Why are you saying that now? And I meant not me—I meant I worry the soldiers might fall behind."
"Right, right. I knoooow. Hahaha."
"..."
Kutuzov had a burning urge to tell the old general sneering at him, Since the commander-in-chief runs every day, the troops' complaints are piercing the sky, but he swallowed that improper thought and spoke again.
"Then, General Suvorov—are you assuming we will fight France immediately?"
"What are you talking about? How would we fight France right now? We're busy fighting the Ottoman Turks."
Kutuzov rolled his eyes around for a moment, then asked again.
"…Then shouldn't you have told the Tsar after hearing that envoy's words?"
"To the Tsar? Haha. Who knows?"
Suvorov gave a short, amused laugh.
"I'll make a prediction. If the Tsar is the Tsar I've watched for decades, then by now she has already driven the matter to the point it can't be undone."
"What does that—"
"Everyone seems to think the Tsar is old and therefore easy to take lightly, but she is someone who has held her seat in Saint Petersburg for decades. She is a master at scheming political tricks and reshaping state affairs as her heart pleases."
"…I thought what the Tsar changed were only her nighttime attendants."
"Hahaha—hey, you. That's a vicious joke. Still, Duke Saltykov, Stanisław Poniatowski, Lieutenant Grigory Orlov, Duke Potemkin… the men the Empress took into her bed are indeed many."
Suvorov laughed loudly, took out vodka, and poured it into a glass.
"A drink, Kutuzov?"
"If it's from you, General, I'll accept gratefully."
"Good, good. Have a drink. In this dull battlefield, isn't drink the only pleasure?"
They filled their glasses with vodka to the brim, clinked them with a clink, and like Russians, poured the harsh liquor straight down the back of their throats.
"Khh. Not bad."
"Indeed."
"Kutuzov. I said earlier I'd make a prediction, didn't I?"
"Yes, General."
"I'll make it more specific. By now… yes—the English will be receiving the Tsar's letter and reading it."
"…The English?"
Suvorov nodded without a word.
"If it's a letter…"
"Then naturally it will be a letter declaring war on France."
"…Will England listen to the Tsar?"
"Haha. How could I possibly know that far, Kutuzov? I only know the nature of Russians. I don't know what party the English have, what-this-party or that-party. I only know how the Tsar will act."
And even how I should act, Suvorov added.
Kutuzov stared at the face of his vastly senior superior, eyes shining, and asked,
"…How will you act, General Suvorov?"
"A soldier should not put his hand into politics. He should think of ways to raise the chance that the Tsar's orders will become reality. Major General Mikhail Kutuzov—if we were to go to war with France, how long would we need to prepare?"
Suvorov's playful tone changed. Kutuzov, too, straightened his back and answered seriously.
"Yes, Commander-in-Chief. I believe roughly one year will suffice."
"Good. Then our Black Sea forces must return quickly. Drive the Ottoman Turkish barbarians out of the Crimean Peninsula by May. And if we push the army to the front of Constantinople by July, the Turks will propose peace—so if we withdraw at once, we can save considerable time. Isn't that right?"
"Yes, Your Excellency."
"Good. After dinner tonight, assemble the officers. Break through Măcin with speed and decisiveness. That is all."
"Yes, Your Excellency."
Russian Empire. Imperial capital Saint Petersburg, Hermitage Winter Palace.
Summoned in secret by the Tsar, the Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary Ambassador to Russia—Count Charles Whitworth—entered the Winter Palace by cutting through Russia's bitterly cold pre-dawn night. He wetted his drying lips once more and spoke.
"…Y-yes, Catherine Tsar, Your Majesty. You mean…?"
"What is it, Ambassador? Was there some impropriety in what I just said?"
"N-no, Your Majesty. Might this subject be granted a moment to think?"
"I grant it."
"Thank you, Your Majesty."
Count Whitworth chewed his lip for a long while at an angle the Empress could not see, then lifted his head again and spoke.
"…To declare war on France… is that truly your intent?"
"Do you believe I, the Tsar of the Empire, have lied?"
"I-I beg forgiveness."
Catherine II narrowed her eyes at Whitworth, glared, and then spoke slowly.
"My proposal is clear. If England will not join Russia's war against France, then Russia will partition Poland and hand it over to Prussia and the Holy Roman Empire in order to create allies."
"P-Poland, Your Majesty Tsar?!"
"Then England should join our alliance."
"…I will inform my country and seek Prime Minister's consent."
"I believe England and Russia will become good allies."
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