by Follett, Ken
{ IV }
Grigori was in a session of the Petrograd soviet when the counterrevolution began.
He was worried, but not surprised. As the Bolsheviks gained popularity, the backlash had become more ruthless. The party was doing well in local elections, winning control of one provincial soviet after another, and had gained 33 percent of the votes for the Petrograd city council. In response the government—now led by Kerensky—arrested Trotsky and again deferred the long-delayed national elections for the Constituent Assembly. The Bolsheviks had said all along that the provisional government would never hold a national election, and this further postponement only added to Bolshevik credibility.
Then the army made its move.
General Kornilov was a shaven-headed Cossack who had the heart of a lion and the brains of a sheep, according to a famous remark by General Alexeev. On September 9 Kornilov ordered his troops to march on Petrograd.
The soviet responded quickly. The delegates immediately resolved to set up the Committee for Struggle Against the Counterrevolution.
A committee was nothing, Grigori thought impatiently. He got to his feet, holding down anger and fear. As the delegate for the First Machine Gun Regiment, he was listened to respectfully, especially on military matters. “There is no point in a committee if its members are just going to make speeches,” he said passionately. “If the reports we have just heard are true, some of Kornilov’s troops are not far from the city limits of Petrograd. They can be halted only by force.” He always wore his sergeant’s uniform, and carried his rifle and a pistol. “The committee will be pointless unless it mobilizes the workers and soldiers of Petrograd against the mutiny of the army.”
Grigori knew that only the Bolshevik party could mobilize the people. And all the other deputies knew it, too, regardless of what party they belonged to. In the end it was agreed that the committee would have three Mensheviks, three Socialist Revolutionaries, and three Bolsheviks including Grigori; but everyone knew the Bolsheviks were the only ones who counted.
As soon as that was decided, the Committee for Struggle left the debating hall. Grigori had been a politician for six months, and he had learned how to work the system. Now he ignored the formal composition of the committee and invited a dozen useful people to join them, including Konstantin from the Putilov works and Isaak from the First Machine Guns.
The soviet had moved from the Tauride Palace to the Smolny Institute, a former girls’ school, and the committee reconvened in a classroom, surrounded by framed embroidery and girlish watercolors.
The chairman said: “Do we have a motion for debate?”
This was rubbish, but Grigori had been a deputy long enough to know how to get around it. He moved immediately to take control of the meeting and get the committee focused on action instead of words.
“Yes, comrade Chairman, if I may,” he said. “I propose there are five things we need to do.” A numbered list was always a good idea: people felt they had to listen until you got to the end. “First: Mobilize the Petrograd soldiers against the mutiny of General Kornilov. How can we achieve this? I suggest that Corporal Isaak Ivanovich should draw up a list of the principal barracks with the names of reliable revolutionary leaders in each. Having identified our allies, we should send a letter instructing them to put themselves under the orders of this committee and get ready to repel the mutineers. If Isaak begins now he can bring list and letter back to this committee for approval in a few minutes’ time.”
Grigori paused briefly to allow people to nod, then, taking that for approval, he went on.
“Thank you. Carry on, comrade Isaak. Second, we must send a message to Kronstadt.” The naval base at Kronstadt, an island twenty miles offshore, was notorious for its brutal treatment of sailors, especially young trainees. Six months ago the sailors had turned on their tormentors, and had tortured and murdered many of their officers. The place was now a radical stronghold. “The sailors must arm themselves, deploy to Petrograd, and put themselves under our orders.” Grigori pointed to a Bolshevik deputy whom he knew to be close to the sailors. “Comrade Gleb, will you undertake that task, with the committee’s approval?”
Gleb nodded. “If I may, I will draft a letter for our chairman to sign, then take it to Kronstadt myself.”
“Please do.”
The committee members were now looking a bit bewildered. Things were moving faster than usual. Only the Bolsheviks were unsurprised.
“Third, we must organize factory workers into defensive units and arm them. We can get the guns from army arsenals and from armaments factories. Most workers will need some training in firearms and military discipline. I suggest this task be carried out jointly by the trade unions and the Red Guards.” The Red Guards were revolutionary soldiers and workers who carried firearms. Not all were Bolsheviks, but they usually obeyed orders from the Bolshevik committees. “I propose that comrade Konstantin, the deputy from the Putilov works, take charge of this. He will know the leading union in each major factory.”
Grigori knew that he was turning the population of Petrograd into a revolutionary army, and so did the other Bolsheviks on the committee, but would the rest of them figure that out? At the end of this process, assuming the counterrevolution was defeated, it was going to be very difficult for the moderates to disarm the force they had created and restore the authority of the provisional government. If they thought that far ahead they might try to moderate or reverse what Grigori was proposing. But at the moment they were focused on preventing a military takeover. As usual, only the Bolsheviks had a strategy.
Konstantin said: “Yes, indeed, I’ll make a list.” He would favor Bolshevik union leaders, of course, but they were nowadays the most effective anyway.
Grigori said: “Fourth, the Railwaymen’s Union must do all it can to hamper the advance of Kornilov’s army.” The Bolsheviks had worked hard to gain control of this union, and now had at least one supporter in every locomotive shed. Bolshevik trade unionists always volunteered for duty as treasurer, secretary, or chairman. “Although some troops are on the way here by road, the bulk of the men and their supplies will have to come by rail. The union can make sure they get held up and sent on long diversions. Comrade Viktor, may the committee rely on you to do this?”
Viktor, a railwaymen’s deputy, nodded agreement. “I will set up an ad hoc committee within the union to organize the disruption of the mutineers’ advance.”
“Finally, we should encourage other cities to set up committees like this one,” Grigori said. “The revolution must be defended everywhere. Perhaps other members of this committee could suggest which towns we should communicate with?”
This was a deliberate distraction, but they fell for it. Glad to have something to do, the committee members called out the names of towns that should organize Committees for Struggle. That ensured they did not pick over Grigori’s more important proposals, but let them go unchallenged; and they never thought about the long-term consequences of arming the citizens.
Isaak and Gleb drafted their letters and got them signed by the chairman without further discussion. Konstantin made his list of factory leaders and started sending messages to them. Viktor left to organize the railwaymen.
The committee began to argue about the wording of a letter to neighboring towns. Grigori slipped away. He had what he wanted. The defense of Petrograd, and of the revolution, was well under way. And the Bolsheviks were in charge of it.
What he needed now was reliable information about the whereabouts of the counterrevolutionary army. Were there really troops approaching the southern suburbs of Petrograd? If so they might have to be dealt with faster than the Committee for Struggle could act.
He walked from the Smolny Institute across the bridge the short distance to his barracks. There he found the troops already preparing to fight Kornilov’s mutineers. He took an armored car, a driver, and three reliable revolutionary soldiers, and drove across the city to the south.
In the darkenin
g autumn afternoon they zigzagged through the southern suburbs, looking for the invading army. After a couple of fruitless hours Grigori decided there was a good chance the reports of Kornilov’s progress had been exaggerated. In any event he was likely to come across nothing more than an advance party. All the same, it was important to check them, and he persisted with his search.
They eventually found an infantry brigade making camp at a school.
He considered returning to barracks and bringing the First Machine Guns here to attack. But he thought there might be a better way. It was risky, but it would save a lot of bloodshed if it worked.
He was going to try to win by talking.
They drove past an apathetic sentry into the playground and Grigori got out of the car. As a precaution, he unfolded the spike bayonet at the end of his rifle and fixed it in the attack position. Then he slung the rifle over his shoulder. Feeling vulnerable, he forced himself to look relaxed.
Several soldiers approached him. A colonel said: “What are you doing here, Sergeant?”
Grigori ignored him and addressed a corporal. “I need to speak to the leader of your soldiers’ committee, comrade,” he said.
The colonel said: “There are no soldiers’ committees in this brigade, comrade. Get back in your car and clear off.”
But the corporal spoke up with nervous defiance. “I was the leader of my platoon committee, Sergeant—before the committees were banned, of course.”
The colonel’s face darkened with anger.
This was the revolution in miniature, Grigori realized. Who would prevail—the colonel or the corporal?
More soldiers drew near to listen.
“Then tell me,” Grigori said to the corporal, “why are you attacking the revolution?”
“No, no,” said the corporal. “We’re here to defend it.”
“Someone has been lying to you.” Grigori turned and raised his voice to address the bystanders. “The prime minister, Comrade Kerensky, has sacked General Kornilov, but Kornilov won’t go, and that’s why he has sent you to attack Petrograd.”
There was a murmur of disapproval.
The colonel looked awkward: he knew Grigori was right. “Enough of these lies!” he blustered. “Get out of here now, Sergeant, or I’ll shoot you down.”
Grigori said: “Don’t touch your weapon, Colonel. Your men have a right to the truth.” He looked at the growing crowd. “Don’t they?”
“Yes!” said several of them.
“I don’t like everything Kerensky has done,” said Grigori. “He has brought back the death penalty and flogging. But he is our revolutionary leader. Whereas your General Kornilov wants to destroy the revolution.”
“Lies!” the colonel said angrily. “Don’t you men understand? This sergeant is a Bolshevik. Everyone knows they are in the pay of Germany!”
The corporal said: “How do we know who to believe? You say one thing, Sergeant, but the colonel says another.”
“Then don’t believe either of us,” Grigori said. “Go and find out for yourselves.” He raised his voice to make sure everyone could hear him. “You don’t have to hide in this school. Go to the nearest factory and ask any worker. Speak to soldiers you see in the streets. You’ll soon learn the truth.”
The corporal nodded. “Good idea.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” said the colonel furiously. “I’m ordering you all to stay within the grounds.”
That was a big mistake, Grigori thought. He said: “Your colonel doesn’t want you to inquire for yourselves. Doesn’t that show you that he must be telling you lies?”
The colonel put his hand on his pistol and said: “That’s mutinous talk, Sergeant.”
The men stared at the colonel and at Grigori. This was the moment of crisis, and death was as near to Grigori as it had ever been.
Suddenly Grigori realized that he was at a disadvantage. He had been so caught up in the argument that he had failed to plan what to do when it ended. He had his rifle over his shoulder, but the safety lock was engaged. It would take several seconds to swing it off his shoulder, turn the awkward knob that unlocked the safety catch, and lift the rifle into firing position. The colonel could draw and shoot his pistol a lot faster. Grigori felt a wave of fear, and had to suppress an urge to turn and run.
“Mutiny?” he said, playing for time, trying not to let fear weaken the assertive tone of his voice. “When a sacked general marches on the capital, but his troops refuse to attack their legitimate government, who’s the mutineer? I say it’s the general—and those officers who attempt to carry out his treasonable orders.”
The colonel drew his pistol. “Get out of here, Sergeant.” He turned to the others. “You men, go into the school and assemble in the hall. Remember, disobedience is a crime in the army—and the death penalty has been restored. I’ll shoot anyone who refuses.”
He pointed his gun at the corporal.
Grigori saw that the men were about to obey the authoritative, confident, armed officer. There was now only one way out, he saw in desperation. He had to kill the colonel.
He saw a way. He would have to be very quick indeed, but he thought he could probably do it.
If he was wrong he would die.
He slipped his rifle off his left shoulder and, without pausing to switch it to his right hand, he thrust it forward as hard as he could into the colonel’s side. The sharp point of the long bayonet ripped through the cloth of the uniform, and Grigori felt it sink into the soft stomach. The colonel gave a shout of pain, but he did not fall. Despite his wound he turned, swinging his gun hand around in an arc. He pulled the trigger.
The shot went wild.
Grigori pushed on the rifle, thrusting the bayonet in and up, aiming for the heart. The colonel’s face twisted in agony and his mouth opened, but no sound came out, and he fell to the ground, still clutching his pistol.
Grigori withdrew the bayonet with a jerk.
The colonel’s pistol fell from his fingers.
Everyone stared at the officer writhing in silent torment on the parched grass of the playground. Grigori unlocked the safety on his rifle, aimed at the colonel’s heart, and fired at close range twice. The man became still.
“As you said, Colonel,” Grigori said. “It’s the death penalty.”
{ V }
Fitz and Bea took a train from Moscow accompanied only by Bea’s Russian maid, Nina, and Fitz’s valet, Jenkins, a former boxing champion who had been rejected by the army because he could not see farther than ten yards.
They got off the train at Bulovnir, the tiny station that served Prince Andrei’s estate. Fitz’s experts had suggested that Andrei build a small township here, with a timber yard and grain stores and a mill; but nothing had been done, and the peasants still took their produce by horse and cart twenty miles to the old market town.
Andrei had sent an open carriage to meet them, with a surly driver who looked on while Jenkins lifted the trunks onto the back of the vehicle. As they drove along a dirt road through farmland, Fitz recalled his previous visit, when he had come as the new husband of the princess, and the villagers had stood at the roadside and cheered. There was a different atmosphere now. Laborers in the fields barely looked up as the carriage passed, and in villages and hamlets the inhabitants deliberately turned their backs.
This kind of thing irritated Fitz and made him bad-tempered, but his spirits were soothed by the sight of the timeworn stones of the old house, colored a buttery yellow by the low afternoon sun. A little flock of immaculately dressed servants emerged from the front door like ducks coming to be fed, and bustled about the carriage opening doors and manhandling luggage. Andrei’s steward, Georgi, kissed Fitz’s hand and said, in an English phrase he had obviously learned by rote: “Welcome back to your Russian home, Earl Fitzherbert.”
Russian houses were often grandiose but shabby, and Bulovnir was no exception. The double-height hall needed painting, the priceless chandelier was dusty, and a dog had peed on th
e marble floor. Prince Andrei and Princess Valeriya were waiting beneath a large portrait of Bea’s grandfather frowning sternly down on them.
Bea rushed to Andrei and embraced him.
Valeriya was a classical beauty with regular features and dark hair in a neat coiffure. She shook hands with Fitz and said in French: “Thank you for coming. We’re so happy to see you.”
When Bea detached herself from Andrei, wiping her tears, Fitz offered his hand to shake. Andrei gave him his left hand: the right sleeve of his jacket hung empty. He was pale and thin, as if suffering from a wasting illness, and there was a little gray in his black beard, although he was only thirty-three. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am to see you,” he said.
Fitz said: “Is something wrong?” They were speaking French, in which they were all fluent.
“Come into the library. Valeriya will take Bea upstairs.”
They left the women and went into a dusty room full of leather-bound books that looked as if they were not often read. “I’ve ordered tea. I’m afraid we’ve no sherry.”
“Tea will be fine.” Fitz eased himself into a chair. His wounded leg ached after the long journey. “What’s going on?”
“Are you armed?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. My service revolver is in my luggage.” Fitz had a Webley Mark V that had been issued to him in 1914.
“Please keep it close to hand. I wear mine constantly.” Andrei opened his jacket to reveal a belt and holster.
“You’d better tell me why.”
“The peasants have set up a land committee. Some Socialist Revolutionaries have talked to them and given them stupid ideas. They claim the right to take over any land I’m not cultivating and divide it up among themselves.”
“Haven’t you been through this before?”
“In my grandfather’s time. We hanged three peasants and thought that was the end of the matter. But these wicked ideas lie dormant, and sprout again years later.”
“What did you do this time?”