All four were condemned to the gallows.
37
Eighty thousand spectators gathered in the public square to view the hanging.
None of them knew that it was to be the last public hanging in Russia. They only knew that the prisoners to be executed were criminals of the vilest sort, for they had violently cut down their blessed tsar.
The irony utterly escaped them that these very criminals had fought for, cried out for, and indeed given their lives to free from autocratic oppression those throngs that now cheered their death. It mattered not to these masses that Alexander was less of a monarch than they might have wanted, or that he had been killed for opposing freedom.
He was the tsar! He deserved all reverence and homage, for he ruled by the very edict of God. Hanging itself was too kind a punishment for such evil emissaries of the devil as would take his life!
Scattered throughout the crowd were those who remained as a remnant of The People’s Will. They had escaped the hangman’s noose, but still lived in fear of arrest. Alexander and Pobedonostev had initiated purges that were now sweeping St. Petersburg. Only a few were willing to risk exposure this once in order to bid their brave and heroic leaders one final farewell.
For Paul Yevnovich Burenin—now cast adrift with neither mentor nor purpose—the pain of witnessing the tragic end of his comrades was a continuation of that awful ache that had never diminished from the day he had seen the neck of his friend Kazan snap. His mind had become so dulled with pain and loss that he could no longer distinguish who the real murderers were.
Yes, Andrei had planned it; Sophia had signaled to Yazkov, who had been blown senseless along with the tsar, and Remiga and Griggovski had been arrested at the scene. But if they had killed the tsar—so had he, although fate had prevented him from the honor of actually being present at the moment the blood had been spilled.
But they were not killers . . . murderers! This was a war. Alexander Romanov was merely a casualty of the conflict. Perhaps Kazan and Zhelyabov and Sophia were also casualties.
If by such thoughts he justified the government along with his rebel brothers, then so be it. In this struggle, each side had its moral agenda and could equally defend its motives and courses of action. The revolutionaries said they must destroy the perpetrators of oppression and injustice. The government declared that it must ruthlessly punish treason and sedition in order to maintain peace and tranquility.
The arguments reminded Paul of the age-old proverb of origins, whether the chicken or its egg had come first. To Paul’s mind—and he thought the same conclusion must be drawn by any objective and rational man—there would be no need of treason or sedition if a government handed out liberty and justice instead of slavery and corruption.
Thus, the government could defend its case all it wanted. But it would always reduce to the simple fact that there would be no revolutionaries if the government acted on behalf of the people instead of itself.
In the end, if this horrible struggle ever did have an end, the true heroes of the conflict for freedom would be those like Kazan and Zhelyabov and Perovskaya, not Alexander II of Russia. The heinous history of imperial atrocities would surely indict the monarchy and elevate the memory of all those who had fought against it.
At this moment, however, as Paul glanced nervously around him, it was all too clear that no one in this pressing throng would extol the praises of those dangling from the ropes in front of them. The vacillating mood of the people had swung back in favor of the monarchy, whether the emperor be Alexander II or Alexander III. Paul had no doubt that if it became known that he too was a member of The People’s Will, those around him in the crowd would scourge him senseless and carry him forward to hang with his comrades, rejoicing in having done their patriotic duty.
The spontaneous uprisings of the people predicted by many radicals had not occurred. Nor would they. It had been wishful thinking from the beginning to believe the masses would fall in behind their loud outcries for change.
The imperial regime possessed a frightfully strong, almost hypnotic hold on the people. Many in Paul’s circle blamed this on the Church. Orthodoxy and the mechanics of empire were so tightly interwoven as to be indistinguishable. And the people were so bound to the traditions of the Church that they could not, or were afraid to, separate the two. They were equally afraid to think for themselves. The priests and the tsar told them what to think, what to believe, and what to do. Theirs was not to question . . . only to think what they were told, and to obey.
It was becoming more and more apparent that it would take far more than killing the tsar to bring about radical change in Russia.
Those revolutionaries who had opposed the populist movement ten years before in the early 1870s had claimed that the people were not ready for any form of self-rule. Perhaps they had been right, after all. Not only were the masses not ready to govern themselves, it seemed they didn’t even want such liberating change. Would the Russian people ever be ready?
In any event, it would take a long time—too long, perhaps years. In the meantime, the imperialist government would be free to run rampant, to add to its ever-lengthening list of atrocities, to further delude and enslave the weak-minded masses.
But change must come, whether the people were ready, whether the people even wanted it or not! A new form of government must replace the rule of the Romanov tyranny—a new government unshackled by bondage to tsardom and the Church. A government committed to freedom for the masses, freedom and the right and power to rule themselves!
There had been times since the assassination that Paul was almost consumed with guilt over his miraculous escape from arrest. He had been nearby, but was not apprehended. He had even gone back to the cheese shop, and left only minutes before Vlasenko’s thugs burst down its doors. Why . . . why had he not been seen and arrested that day?
Not only had he been spared the rope, but he had also managed to slip through the tightening net of blanket purges carried out by the Third Section. And as he watched his comrades breathe their last that day, his guilt began to dissolve, giving way to a renewed sense of purpose.
He had been spared for a reason. Change must come! The people had to be made ready! The throwing off of oppression must not wait years!
The revolutionary movement could not die out, even with this massacre of its finest leaders! Someone must continue to carry the torch, to stir the people from their sleep!
He must not give up. If he could endure and hold on to the vision of freedom and change, perhaps all would not be lost. In time there would come renewed revolutionary fervor.
He and the few who survived must be ready!
38
Dull, blurry lights . . . muted moans . . . foul smells of bodies, urine, and sickness. Hot, cold, pain, and heaviness . . .
Then again the blackness.
Not the blissful blackness of peaceful sleep. It was the live blackness, the darkness visible, fire without light, the black flame that consumes not and cannot be quenched.
Again the voices . . . thin, vapory lights . . . groans of suffering . . . words that seemed familiar but had no meaning . . . names . . . sounds close by . . . hands touching him, lifting his head, pouring something down his throat . . .
In the pitiful conditions of a prison ward—with minimal medical supplies, meager rations, cramped, cold, dank conditions, and men huddled together on makeshift cots—Sergei endured the deathlike agony of his fever. Hardly alive enough to pray for death, not dead enough to escape the prolonged and inescapable suffering, he merely existed, scarcely human at all.
The bright uniform of the prestigious Guard Regiment unit that he had once worn with such dignity had long since turned to rags and been replaced by drab gray. The light in his eyes and the noble bearing of his countenance and stature had disappeared. The fire of passion had gone out. The broad, straight shoulders had become slumped and thin. The manly body now lay feverish, shrunken, and wasted. The virile brain of author, thinker,
and lover was scorched and void.
Around him were thieves, murderers, and insurrectionists, on their way—like him, if they survived—to the mines and prisons of the east. Attempting to purge the land of troublemakers and treasonous notions, the government of the Alexanders was unwittingly throwing into a cauldron of apprenticeship the anarchistic ideas that would ultimately seal its doom. The prisons and work camps of Siberia were, in fact, training an entire new generation of revolutionaries, and many of the forerunners now awaited their transport in the cells or sick wards of Tiumen.
Already in the east, listening for the first cuckoos of spring to send their calls through the desolate snow-enshrouded forests, convicts throughout Siberia were making ready to join “General Cuckoo’s Army,” the yearly migration west of escapees. Those clever enough to bribe, kill, or con their way out of the mines, over or under the prison walls, or through the gates manned by unscrupulous guards, were lucky if they remained alive long enough to enjoy their freedom. Without provisions, and thousands of kilometers from friendly faces and hospitable climates, most died along the way. Yet every spring thousands more made the attempt.
Those just on their way, however, were watched more closely, and few would swell the Cuckoo’s ranks this spring, especially those ensnared by the rampant epidemic of fever. Men, women, rebels, and robbers alike were struck down and now lay prostrate, thinking of no escape other than sleep . . . or death.
If sleep cannot be had for the fever, thought Sergei as gradual sensations of semi-reality and blurry consciousness began to return to him, perhaps death might be accomplished by taking eternity into one’s own hands.
Sergei’s mind filled with the ecclesiastical broodings of Solomon, the despairing son of David whose great wisdom, like this prince’s own attempted writings, had left him desolate, alone, and full of meaninglessness: For the living know that they shall die; but the dead know not any thing, neither have they anymore a reward, for the memory of them is forgotten. Meaningless! Meaningless . . . Everything is meaningless!
What was life but meaninglessness, a chasing after the wind . . . futility and folly? Yes, there was a time for everything. A time for war, a time to speak, a time to weep, a time to kill. He had done them all. They had brought him here. For him there would be no time for peace, no time to laugh, no time for healing. There was only a time to live . . . and now to die. What could life be, when to recover meant only a doomed existence of backbreaking servitude? Better to end it now. To think of a future commission in the Cuckoo’s army was a futile hope. Why wait? Escape—a complete escape, a glorious escape from this cesspool of stench and cold and vermin infestation—could be had . . . now! All it would take would be a moment or two when the fellow dressed in white had his back turned. . . .
Sergei struggled to lift his aching head two or three centimeters off the filthy mattress and rolled his eyes to the left and right, trying to make some sense of his surroundings.
If only his opportunity would come before the hot spells and shaking and delirium returned. It was suddenly all so clear! His brain was functioning again. How long had he been in this vile place? How could he have forgotten everything? He had even forgotten who he was . . . how long had it been since he had remembered?
But now he did remember! His focus was back. And with it the clearheaded determination of what he must do.
If only he could get to that table on the other side of the room where the man’s instruments lay. There he was sure to find something sharp enough. If only he had the needed strength to plunge it deep into his flesh!
His head fell back, his breath coming in short gasps now. Sitting up had been exhausting. The flashes were coming back . . . he blinked several times, trying to regain the clarity of vision.
The fever was coming upon him again! It had to be now, or who could tell when another opportunity might come! He was only seconds away from the table where he could leave his suffering forever . . . only seconds away from bliss and comfort and rest!
With a mighty gargantuan effort he hoisted himself to a sitting position, sweating from the effort and anticipation. His lungs gasped for air. He glanced around. The room, the ceiling, the lights, the man’s white uniform—all spun in mingled disarray. Frantically he shook his head and blinked again, trying to keep them still.
He lifted his feet over the side of the cot. As the skin of his bare feet touched the dirt floor, he felt as though he were standing on a glacier. But his head was on fire . . . and he could not stop himself from shaking.
There was the man . . . his back still turned . . . or was it his back? He was still dressed in white . . . he was wearing a robe . . . a robe of white . . . now he was coming closer . . . it must be an angel come to welcome him!
Sergei had not stood for weeks. His knees shook, but he would steady them . . . the table was only five meters away . . . five meters to escape . . . to peaceful sleep!
He lurched forward . . . one step, two, three . . . heedless of the buckling of his knees . . . conscious only of flashing, spinning lights and figures and shapes, all now blurring into dreamy confusion and distortion.
Voices . . . shouts . . . that name he no longer recognized as his own . . . Hands grasped at his shoulders . . . unfriendly hands . . . tugging and pulling . . . hands of ice and fire.
He shoved, and with one last summoning of some memory of the energy of his former life, he pushed the intruding angel from him, then stumbled forward, crashing onto the table. Even as his legs gave way beneath him, he felt his hands close upon the instrument of death.
He collapsed onto the floor, breaking the table. Wood, instruments, tools, and a pitcher of water shattered around him in a great din of chaotic clatter.
Unaware of the shouts now filling the room, or of the approach of still more white-robed angels, or of the blood now running freely from the hands clutching the surgically honed steel blade on the wrong end, he groped with fading strength to bring the wicked knife in one fatal blow into his chest.
And still there were calls . . . and shouts . . . and grabbing, pulling, unwelcome hands . . . until the spinning lights slowly dimmed . . . and the voices dissolved. . . .
His head fell against the blood-muddied floor . . . blackness engulfed him . . . and he knew no more.
39
Basil Anickin cursed the inept failure of The People’s Will.
How naive they all had been! The death of the tsar meant nothing. If anything it signified a regression, and put them in an even weaker position than before. Whatever support they might have had from the people, they had all but lost now. And the new tsar’s repressive reaction had decimated their numbers to but a fraction of what they had been two years ago.
All this, however, was only a small part of Basil’s frustration in the aftermath of the tsar’s assassination. Anickin had not fallen in with The People’s Will after his escape from prison primarily because of shared vision for revolution, but merely out of expediency. His objectives were then, and remained now, entirely personal. What did the tsar matter to him? What did revolution matter to him? Revenge tormented his sinister mind.
The only thing that did matter is that his previous plan calling for the demise of the House of Remizov would have to be altered. The masses would not rise to follow the rebels. The tsar had been killed, there had been four hangings and a city-wide purge of the radical element, and that was that. No riots. No bombings. No mass attacks on the aristocracy. St. Petersburg slept.
He would not have the convenient cover of a popular and mass uprising to shield his murderous activity. He would have to find some other way. The risk to himself would be greater. And he would also have a much more difficult time enlisting anyone from the organization to help him.
Basil ground his teeth to admit that he was going to need help at all. What pleasure it would give him to feel the noble whelp’s neck between his fingers, squeezing the life out of him, until he gave it a final, lethal snap! But a frontal, man-to-man assault would never wo
rk. He had learned that lesson too well last time. He was not willing to risk getting his own neck snapped, and the coward was of unnatural strength.
However, if he could find no one, if forced to that extreme, he would brave the consequences even of exposing himself to such peril. He would not take him on frontally this time. He would attack with stealth. The element of surprise would be his ally.
He fully intended to survive and gloat with satisfaction over the demise of both the hated Remizovs!
The plan he would use to achieve the greatest appeasement of his hunger for revenge was simple.
First he would kill the princess. Katrina’s beautiful face still haunted his waking and dreaming memories. With an acrid bitterness her rejection still stung the deepest core of his being. But she would pay for what she had done!
And then he would watch her blackguard of a husband suffer, and suffer cruelly, at her loss. He might even let Remizov know he had taken Katrina’s life himself. He would attend the funeral, and show himself more frequently, perhaps enticing Remizov into the attack.
He rubbed his hands together and grinned at the thought of Dmitri’s bloodshot eyes and anguished countenance. He would tip his hat and smile knowingly at him from afar, steadily driving Remizov insane at the loss of his true love!
And then, when Count Remizov had suffered sufficiently—not that any amount of suffering would make up for what he had been through!—then, but not before, Basil would find him alone in some black recess of the city, on his way home late one night. He would strangle the life out of him, whispering the hateful venom of his bitterness in his ear until finally would come the moment of supreme satisfaction when he would break the blackguard’s neck and drop him in the darkened alleyway—dead like the snarling, mongrel outcast of a cur he was!
The Russians Collection Page 95