“What are we to do with our officers when we rise?” asked a sailor when an opportunity for questions was given.
That was a leading question and I awaited her answer with as breathless interest as did the men.
“I cannot agree to the shedding of innocent blood,” she began. “I am a terrorist because the terror strikes down only the guilty.”
“But if we do not kill our officers we would all suffer. We might indeed lose the fight.”
“Wise members of our liberty movement believe that when we are actually in armed insurrection we should cling to war methods. The government kills our leaders first. Perhaps we should kill the officers. I must leave that to you. I would not hold you back. I would not argue against your doing it. But I cannot sanction it. I would prefer you bound them hand and foot and stored them away until you could consign them to a prison.” A very ingenuous answer, this—and so woman-like.
After something more than an hour the cooler ones reminded the meeting that to prolong the discussion unnecessarily was tempting discovery. The speaker then closed the meeting with a few earnest words of warning not to be premature in rising. The policy of the whole country then was to wait so that all Russia might rise simultaneously. Occasional tilts with the government only result in excessive blood-spilling and do not materially further the cause. “When the next uprising comes it must be the death-grapple.” There was a distribution of leaflets, and the meeting closed, as it had opened, with the guarded singing of the Marseillaise.
Pasha and I left the room first. We retraced our steps through the court, and as we passed the sentry he again saluted smilingly and I breathed freely once more. Light-heartedly we retraced our steps to the attic headquarters, which were now deserted. The samovar was still steaming, however, invitingly. We sat and discussed the meeting over our tea, before laying off our respective disguises. We left the house together, meaning to take the six o’clock boat back to the capital.
Following the usual conspirative methods, we did not proceed on our way directly, but turned two or three corners before setting out for the boat. As we neared the main street leading to the pier we decided to call an ishvozchik [cab]. As I turned to look for one I felt Pasha tugging at my arm. I turned toward her quickly. Her gaze was fixed on a man who appeared to be hurrying off across the little garden over the way.
“The Fox!” she murmured.
Then I knew that probably we were shadowed.