The dawn in Russia

by Henry Woodd Nevinson

CHAPTER X
THE DAYS OF MOSCOW—III

In many battles there comes a moment when little or nothing appears to have changed, and yet you suddenly realize that all is over but the running. Such a moment came on the morning of Christmas Day as I went up the Sadovaya towards the central revolutionist position where I had been the afternoon before. The barricades were still standing, the Sodovaya was still covered with such a network of wire about four feet from the ground that one had to walk under it bent double like a hoop, and no horse could have moved. The guns had not come perceptibly nearer, and in the centre of the town I had seen an officer stopped and deprived of his sword by half a dozen men with revolvers, who threatened to strip him naked, as another had been stripped the day before. There were rumours of all manner of wild enterprises on foot—attacks on stations, on prisons, on barracks. All these were favourable signs. Yet as I went along, I suddenly realized, “instinctively” as it is called, that the tide had turned, and that the highest moment of revolutionary success lay behind us.

I was so convinced of this that, wishing to photograph the barricades before they disappeared, I went all the way back to the hotel for my kodak. There was a brilliant sun, and as the firing had not yet become severe, I walked leisurely through the main position, selecting in my mind the best places; for I had only one roll of films left, the rest having gone down the line. As on the previous day, a good many people were moving about in groups, besides the usual number of women passing up and down unconcernedly, since children must be fed, revolution or not. But from a number of unconscious signs, I felt the place was to be abandoned, and it appeared likely that the fighting revolutionists had already gone. So I began taking the views, and had just secured a fine construction of doors, benches, barrels, railings, shop-signs, and trees, when I found myself surrounded by a group of young men, evidently displeased. I soon perceived I had fallen into the midst of my friends. They were very quiet about it, and only one of them spoke. He was a dark Pole of about twenty-five, dirty and red-eyed with sleepless fighting, and he appeared to be informing me that I was a spy and must at once give up my camera. To make his meaning plainer, he stealthily drew a revolver from his coat pocket, and held it close against my side, whilst he repeated his demands in the same low voice. In two or three unknown tongues I appealed to him and the others, who had now closed in all round me, ready with the same stealthy argument. I smiled my hardest, assuring them I was at least as good a revolutionist by nature as they, and would rather explode the universal spheres than betray a stick of their barricades. I think they understood the smile, for their manner became less anti-social. But there was a movement among the crowd, and as I tried to escape in it, they again grew painfully insistent. In the end I had to give up the roll of films, and with that they appeared content, for they graciously let me keep the camera. But by their action their finest barricades lost a chance of immortality.

The incident only proved how impossible it was to know where the revolutionists were stationed, or in what force. There was nothing to distinguish these men from the numbers of others with whom they were mixing quite freely. It is true that, after this experience, I recognized them almost by intuition. As though by a law of nature, they assumed the conspirators’ habit—the hat drawn down to the eyes, the long coat with the collar turned up, the hand constantly feeling in the pocket, the quick look of suspicion glancing every way. After a few days I think I could have picked out the leaders simply by their pale and intellectual faces, or their appearance of nervous and bloodshot excitement. But the possession of a revolver was the only admissible evidence, and that required search. By the soldiers it was taken as sufficient evidence for death without phrase, and any one caught with a revolver in his pocket had no further chance. Of course, the revolutionists were aware of this, and knew that death was as good as surrender. Whilst I was among them that morning, for instance, an English officer only a few streets away saw five men suddenly come upon a strong picket. They were summoned to halt, but, instead of halting, they walked quietly on, taking no notice. One after another they were shot down, till only one was left, and he also walked on, taking no notice. Then he was shot, and there was an end of the five. No doubt the more usual form of courage would have been to rush upon the picket and die fighting. But they may have been out of cartridges, and in any case it would be hard to surpass their example in passive bravery.

In expectation of sudden death like theirs, all the students, both men and girls, had stitched little labels inside the backs of their coats, so that, when they were killed, their parents might possibly hear the news and know the pride of having produced an adventurous child. I think most of the revolutionists had done the same, but the dead were piled up and carted into the country for burial with such indiscriminate carelessness, that I doubt if the precaution was of very much avail. And, indeed, it was not the revolutionist who suffered most during the days of combat, but the sightseers and the ordinary passers-by.

For myself, I was very unfortunate all that day. The guns began firing heavily again about eleven, and I tried many devices to reach their main position on the Tverskaya by passing from lane to lane in their rear. I even reached the Pushkin statue, from which I could see the limbers of the guns waiting under cover. But the continual threats of bayonets and rifles on every side, and the violent searching by the sentries became strangely demoralizing. Certainly the process of search that day was pleasingly simple in my case, because what underclothing I still possessed had gone to the wash, and all the shops were shut. But my kodak excited the utmost suspicion; all the more, perhaps, because it was empty now.

Tired of all this, I turned down the main Boulevard westward for an interval of peace, but again I was singularly disappointed in my hope. The further I went, the more disturbed and dangerous the atmosphere of things became. Something was evidently happening down that way. Troops were marching hastily about, and two guns passed at full gallop. At one place I heard an officer’s voice shouting some order, and the few people on the pavement near me began to run for their lives. I saw no reason to run till two soldiers came dashing at me through the trees with fixed bayonets. Then running was too late, and, seated on a railing, I awaited them, feeling that the centre of indifference was reached at last, and life and death were equal shades. But something induced them to respect so obvious a foreigner, and having again searched me and taken half a crown each as their reward for international amenity, they conducted me past an angle of a church and waved adieu.

Then I discovered the reason of all this excitement. New barricades were rapidly appearing across many of the streets leading down into the Boulevard from the right-hand, or north-west side. I continued along the circle almost to the point where the Boulevard ends, close to the great cathedral of the Saviour near the river, and all the way I saw signs of fresh conflict and heard sudden outbursts of rifle or revolver-firing. It was only after two or three days that I understood the real significance of this movement, by which the revolutionists were preparing for their final stand in the extreme north-west of the city. But at the time I thought they were merely attempting a feint upon the Government’s left, just as they had tried on the right the day before. It seemed probable, also, that the movement was intended to cover their withdrawal from the main position where I had lately left them. And that, indeed, was their object, though they hoped rather to change their centre than to abandon the contest altogether.

Yet the crisis, as I had felt in the morning, was really over. When I passed through the middle of the city again, and out to my own quarter, the crowds were still running to and fro in panic round the Theatre Square, men and women were still falling unexpectedly in the streets, there was as much to do as ever in helping the wounded, and the ambulance yards were continually being filled. But the life seemed to have dropped out of the rising. People were talking with terror of a great peasant invasion, hundreds of thousands strong, that was already marching to deliver their Little Mother Moscow, and hew us all to pieces. With better reason they said that Mischenko, the hero of the Japanese war, was coming as military governor with 7,000 Cossacks. Hour by hour the citizens were agitated by new alarms, and the cautious began to think enough had been done for freedom, and to remember that something, after all, was due to the sacred stove of home. That night the revolutionists issued appeals calling for volunteers at six shillings a day and a revolver, the term of service to be limited to three days. For Russian fighting, or indeed for fighting in any land, the pay was magnificent. Even in nations like our own the risk of life is not valued above two shillings, and though the Russian soldier’s pay was raised for this occasion, it only amounted to threepence three farthings. It was certainly safer for the moment to be a revolutionist than any other kind of citizen, because revolutionists generally knew which was the enemy and where he lay, but I do not think many volunteered for the sake of the pay or the mere delight of firing a revolver. Even if any recruits were gained by such inducements, their fighting, not being inspired by revolutionary spirit, was not likely to be glorious.

During the next two days, there was very little outward change in the position, except that the feeling of disaster grew, and most people began to recognize the winning side and arrange their own behaviour accordingly. The guns still sprinkled bullets over the barricades and wrecked the houses on each side. The soldiers continued their slow and perilous advance from street to street. People fell at random; the hospital and ambulances were crowded beyond limit. On the Tuesday evening an official estimate put the killed and wounded at between 8,000 and 9,000. In ordinary wars all numbers are exaggerated, but in civil war the Government would probably not overstate the number of their victims, and when I went up on Tuesday, the troops had advanced very near to the Sadovaya, the firing was very heavy, and many were hit. But the sense of disaster and failure lay over all, and on that day, for the first time, I heard revolutionists beginning to describe the whole movement as a dress rehearsal and to congratulate themselves upon the excellent practice in street fighting which they had enjoyed.