Red Mutiny (24 page)

Then, amazingly, Father Parmen stepped out of the building.

The colonel at the priest's side approached them. "Permission is given to bury the sailor.... Now you can go."

For the first time since they cast off from the battleship, Feldmann and the sailors breathed easily. Kakhanov must have been cowed by the threat of their guns. Before they left, Feldmann gave Father Parmen some rubles to prepare for the ceremony later that day. They would never see him again.

While Feldmann and the sailors made their way back to the battleship, the surviving
Potemkin
officers and Colonel Schultz from St. Petersburg climbed down the rope ladder into a fishing boat. Some sailors jeered at the "dragons," now stripped of their epaulettes and sabers, as they huddled in the boat before it cast off. For their part, the
Potemkin
officers stayed silent, glad to at least escape with their lives, unlike their captain. In hand, they had a decree written by the sailor committee to deliver to General Kakhanov, reinforcing their warning of the consequences the city would face if he acted against the battleship. "Our final hour of suffering has come," the decree read. "We ask all Cossacks and soldiers to take up arms and to rally together under one banner in the struggle for freedom."

The fishing boat pushed away, and the
Potemkin
crew were completely free of their former oppressors. They did not celebrate, however. Only forty-eight hours had passed since Nikishkin had shot his rifle in the air, sparking the mutiny, and the crew were deeply afflicted with doubt. Most had gone without sleep again; the fires and echoes of rifle shots had been too disturbing to ignore. Then they had to face the sight of the port's devastation at daybreak. Were they the cause of such a nightmare? How many hundreds, if not thousands, had lost their lives? Would the tsar place blame for these deaths at their feet as well?

Whether on watch, resting in hammocks, sitting in the mess decks, or merely pacing the foredeck to pass a few quiet moments, the sailors contemplated these questions with a sense of anxiety. They had mutinied, an act warranting the firing squad, and yet they were standing at anchor outside Odessa as the tsar's forces undoubtedly were being amassed against them. The crew wanted to know what was next. Was the revolution as near as the Odessan agitators had promised? Would other battleships in the Black Sea Fleet come to their aid, as the ship's leaders hoped? Should they return to Sevastopol and surrender, begging for mercy? Should they make a run to some foreign shore?

The crew talked constantly about these possibilities, and the absence of firm answers made rumors spread like a contagion. Before noon, when Kirill sat down for some bread, a sailor by his side turned to him and said, "Is it true that we're going to Romania?"

Kirill stared at the sailor, speechless for a moment. Then he coldly asked, "Who told you that?"

"All the crew is saying it," he said apologetically.

Leaving his bread uneaten, Kirill left to tell the sailor committee what he had heard. On his way, he ran into Kovalenko.

"The crew is troubled," Kirill said. "Out of nowhere, there's an idea to go to Romania, and I'm afraid it will confuse the sailors."

"I doubt this idea would be popular among the crew," Kovalenko said, though he was far from certain.

Then he recounted to Kirill a troubling conversation he had just had with Ensign Alekseyev. The young officer had cornered him to ask if there was a chance he could be sent ashore like the other officers. Clearly, Alekseyev had agreed to serve as a figurehead captain because he feared being shot if he refused; he was doing everything he could
not
to help the sailors, obviously knowing that if the mutiny was suppressed, the naval command would accuse him of aiding the mutineers. Kovalenko pitied Alekseyev but told him he could not help him. Then the ensign attempted to convince him that the crew's only chance of survival was to go to Romania—as he said some of the departed officers had suggested—and abandon the
Potemkin.
That the officer from whom the crew expected leadership was spreading this kind of talk was definitely inexcusable; Kovalenko was rushing to alert the sailor committee.

The two left to find Matyushenko, sure that Ensign Alekseyev needed to be removed from command; defeatist thoughts such as going to Romania had to be dispelled before they inspired a counter-mutiny. But after hearing their concerns, Matyushenko dismissed the suggestion that Alekseyev be dismissed from the battleship, believing this action would only further confuse the crew. Nonetheless he called a committee meeting to discuss this and other matters, including the rampant spread of rumors. A drumroll sounded on the quarterdeck, and the ship's leaders gathered in the admiral's stateroom a few minutes before noon.

Matyushenko had been busy dealing with the officers as well as sending sailors into port to find accurate maps of Odessa, to use in case they needed to shell the city. Although he was still convinced that they should not launch an attack until the Black Sea Fleet joined them, the night's events had made him reconsider this unwillingness to act. Although neither he nor his fellow revolutionaries had uttered the words, they sensed an unspoken agreement that they would follow through on their threat to destroy Odessa if General Kakhanov took one wrong step—whether it was interfering with their martyr's funeral or causing further bloodshed among the city's populace.

Once everyone had assembled at the table, Matyushenko broached the question of keeping Alekseyev as captain. Some sailors complained that he had forestalled their resolution to bombard Odessa; others pointed out that the ensign spent most of his time wallowing in self-pity. And now he was speaking of Romania.

"He doesn't do what he is told. He's not with us," one committee member said.

Another retorted, "He's still new in his role."

Alekseyev was not their only problem, Kirill interjected. The petty officers did not support the mutiny and should be sent away. "They're the most rotten people on the ship," he said.

"If we remove them," a sailor countered, "the crew will lose confidence in our ability to control the ship. Their spirit might collapse, and we won't be able to do anything at all. We'll be better off if we let them stay, but watch over them closely."

Despite the dissension, the committee voted to keep Alekseyev and the petty officers on the
Potemkin,
primarily because of this latter argument: the officers helped maintain the crew's confidence. But the committee needed to silence malicious rumors and involve the crew more in their plans, so the men understood the reasoning behind the committee's resolutions—particularly the need to wait for the squadron. Matyushenko moved to conduct future meetings in a large wardroom, where more sailors could attend, as well as to announce each decision on the quarterdeck for their approval. That way, everyone would feel they had a say in the ship's efforts, solidifying their commitment. If the sailor committee wanted to maintain a hold on the crew, they could not act like their former officers, issuing orders and expecting blind obedience.

Into the early afternoon, the mutiny's leaders remained in the stateroom, in an effort to make decisions democratically. They argued over how best to prepare the
Potemkin's
crew for a battle against the Black Sea Fleet if their fellow sailors on other ships had not yet mutinied, or, if provoked, how to convince their own crew to fire on Odessa. Feldmann returned with welcome news about the funeral but
then instigated a whole new debate about the wisdom of sitting idly while Kakhanov reinforced the city with more troops and artillery.

Matyushenko left before the meeting's end to bring food to the sailors guarding Vakulenchuk and to check on the progress of another group who had been sent to find provisions. On the pier, he met with a military deputation carrying a message from General Kakhanov, guaranteeing the safety of the honor guard of sailors who would accompany Vakulenchuk's cortege to his burial. The procession, Kakhanov said, could begin at 4
P.M.

Before the deputation departed, a soldier unexpectedly drew Matyushenko aside. "There's a big military conference taking place this evening," he said. "It's a council meeting to decide what they're going to do about you. Why don't you drop a few shells on them?"

"Where's it being held?" Matyushenko asked, electrified by the information.

"In the theater. All the senior officers will be there. As soon as you've killed them off, we'll join you. You can be sure of that."

After this conversation, Matyushenko rushed back to the battleship, eager to tell the sailors that they would not have to wait any longer to act. This was their great chance to revenge the previous night's massacre, and, in one barrage, eliminate the military's high command. Once this was accomplished, the workers would rise up, hopefully with the assistance of the soldiers, and the city would fall into their hands. Finally, the sailors had the opportunity to use the
Potemkin
's destructive force in the name of the revolution. Matyushenko could almost taste victory.

That very morning, Naval Minister Avelan and Vice Admiral Chukhnin boarded the first train from Baltic Station in St. Petersburg to Peterhof. The forty-minute ride out of the city, past birch forests and fields of oats, offered much time for reflection. Before midnight on June 15, Chukhnin had received a telegram from Tsar Nicholas at his hotel, instructing him not to leave for Sevastopol until they had a private meeting. Reports of mayhem and a huge fire provoked by the
Potemkin
's arrival in Odessa had made a grave situation worse. Apparently, the tsar felt he needed to express this face-to-face.

Chukhnin had alarming news to deliver himself. First, the transport ship
Vekha
appeared to have joined the
Potemkin.
Second, the squadron he had ordered to intercept the mutinous battleship was still a day away from reaching it. Delayed by preparations to assemble crews and arm the battleships, Vishnevetsky had only just left Sevastopol at 2
A.M.
that morning, and Krieger was not scheduled to leave until that evening to meet up with his rear admiral off Tendra Island. They were taking too much time. Third, two battleships, the
Chesma
and
Ekaterina II,
had to remain behind in Sevastopol because their crews were unreliable; in fact, their captains had disabled each ship's engine room in case of mutiny or any effort to join the
Potemkin.
Finally, reports had reached the Admiralty that another mutiny had broken out among sailors stationed in the Baltic navy base of Libau. The sailors had seized rifles and attacked the officer quarters, requiring a call to local Cossack and infantry regiments to put down the revolt. The event seemed unconnected to the
Potemkin,
but the Admiralty could not know for sure. Taken together, Avelan and Chukhnin had much to explain to their tsar, none of it good.

When they arrived at the station, a footman with a cocked hat and dark green uniform led them to an open carriage. The two admirals had taken the long drive through the grounds often enough to be no longer awed by its splendor. In fact, Chukhnin had last visited only five days before, for a social call with the tsar and his mother. But this morning was different. When they reached the Lower Palace, they did not face the usual interminable wait in the cream-colored antechamber outside the tsar's office. Instead, a tall servant in a long black and scarlet coat immediately led Avelan and Chukhnin to one of the terraces overlooking the sea. The tsar was waiting for them. The meeting was brief; Nicholas was direct and uncharacteristically upset.

"Go to Sevastopol today," he told Chukhnin. "Direct the squadron to quickly crush the uprisings, even if it means sinking the battleship. I'm depending on you."

When Chukhnin returned to St. Petersburg, he telegrammed Krieger and Vishnevetsky that the tsar had granted him unlimited powers to put down the mutiny. Therefore, he advised no hesitation in executing his previous order to sink the
Potemkin
if the sailors refused to surrender. No half measures were to be taken, Chukhnin explained, even at the cost of Russia's premier battleship. He also sent a message to Nikolayev, instructing the commander of the
Eriklik,
Captain Second Rank Boisman, to begin preparations for a firing squad and a burial site for the mutineers.

Once these orders were delivered, Chukhnin boarded a special express train to Nikolayev, from whence he would travel by boat to Sevastopol. He was anxious to be back in command there, as he doubted Krieger could handle the situation effectively. That the squadron had delayed its departure enraged Chukhnin, and he wondered if the moment to deal expeditiously with this mutiny (and to limit the embarrassment caused by it) had already passed.

After his admirals left Peterhof, Nicholas returned to his office and notified the deputy minister of the interior, Trepov, to expand the previous
ukaz
of martial law to include Nikolayev and Sevastopol and the surrounding countryside. With the
Potemkin
on the loose, revolution threatened to spread throughout the Black Sea region. The disaster in Odessa proved the stakes involved. Over the past sixteen hours, Nicholas and his ministers had received frantic messages from the city, pleading for help. The reports spoke of three hundred dead and the burning of a portion of the port. The only precise details available were recorded in a callous note from an army officer, which noted that his troops "expended 1,510 bullets and broke several rifle butts" during the night. In truth, the violence on June 15 took 1,260 lives, and the damage to the port totaled over fifteen million rubles, but the estimates were enough for Nicholas to fear that this was only the beginning, if the
Potemkin
continued its revolt.

The tsar had other concerns as well. His war minister, Vladimir Sakharov, had announced the mobilization of reserves in St. Petersburg and Moscow in order to reinforce troops in the Far East; this act had spurred threats of mass strikes in Russia's two largest cities. Riots in Lodz and Warsaw continued to rage unchecked as well. Trepov was cracking down harshly on strikes in the industrial town of Ivanovo-Voznesensk. "Negotiate less, and act more energetically," Trepov had recently instructed the police, believing the unrest would spread throughout the empire if he were unsuccessful. Furthermore, a conference of city council representatives met in St. Petersburg that week, apparently blaming Nicholas for the continuing defeats at the hands of the Japanese and for Russia's deteriorating internal situation, particularly the rising number of agrarian revolts. Other liberal leaders continued to prod him on political changes that he felt would betray the state. And, finally, rumors had reached Nicholas that some army regiments based in the capital as well as in the Far East were at the brink of mutiny themselves.