Red Mutiny (10 page)

These arrests crystallized workers' distrust of factory owners and local officials alike and persuaded the workers to pursue more strident measures. Some connected with the Social Democrats and Socialist Revolutionaries to obtain arms. The night before the scheduled strike, another group of workers was arrested while heading to a meeting with revolutionaries at a dacha on the coast. The following morning in Peresyp, Odessa's northern district, known for its heavy industry and squalid conditions, news of this second arrest became widely known.

At 8
A.M.
on June 13, the same morning the
Potemkin
arrived off Tendra Island, Anatoly "Kirill" Berezovsky, an Odessan Menshevik, walked down Peresyp's Moskovskaya Street. The dusty thoroughfare was lined with vegetable and meat shops and the occasional newspaper vendor. Children played on the sides of the streets, many sickly looking and all of them too poor to attend school. The stench that hung in the air came from pipes carrying the city's sewage; they ran parallel to Moskovskaya Street and emptied their contents at the district's edge.

Although Kirill, a university student and the son of a successful shopkeeper, was dressed in the threadbare clothes of a worker, even a dim-witted policeman would have guessed that he was not a local. He had neatly trimmed red hair, a fleshy face, and a stout figure, and he spoke of injustice in an educated, philosophical manner. For months now he had been coming to this district, distributing leaflets and informing workers that their suffering was caused by a "criminal monarchy" undeserving of its power. He had seen their patience with factory owners turn into rage, but like other revolutionaries, he had been unable to channel their rage toward his purpose. That morning, the general strike was to take place, and he wanted to be on hand to help agitate the district's workers.

Walking farther down Moskovskaya Street toward the cluster of factories at its end, he sensed something was wrong. People were huddled on street corners, shaking their fingers and speaking in harsh
whispers as to what they should do. Kirill asked someone on the street what had happened and learned of the arrests—and that a crowd had gathered at the gates of the Henn agricultural equipment factory. This factory employed many of the most militant workers, and their leaders were supposed to go there after the previous night's meeting to start the strike. When Kirill arrived, eight hundred workers had already gathered, and more arrived with every passing minute from other outlying districts. Believing this could be the start of a huge strike, Kirill hurried back to the city to retrieve several of his comrades to help him direct the workers. On his way, he passed several police patrols converging on the Henn factory.

An hour later, a detachment of fifty Cossacks on horseback, armed with sabers and revolvers, arrived at the Henn factory. The Peresyp police chief, Parashchenko, led them. He told the workers to clear off and return to their homes. They stood firm, shouting, "Release our comrades. Then we'll leave!" Parashchenko then ordered the workers back into the plant or they would risk the whips of the Cossacks, who, in black breeches, polished boots, and peaked caps, looked eager to deliver on the threat. Given their history of ruthlessness in the tsar's defense, one painted in blood, nobody doubted they were ready to do so. Nonetheless, the workers refused again. The police chief then declared he would attack the crowd unless it dispersed from the factory's gate by the third bugle blast.

One blast from the bugle came.

"If you don't leave," Parashchenko threatened again, "I will fire!"

The bugle sounded again.

The workers, armed with rubble collected by their wives and children, suddenly released a barrage of stones at the Cossacks. Their commander was struck in the face. His horse reared, and he fell off. Gathering his reins, the commander jumped back on his horse and retreated. In moments, the crowd had forced back the rest of the Cossacks. Shouts of premature victory rang out, but, knowing the Cossacks would return, the workers upended two tram cars and some carts to form a barricade. At a distance, the Cossacks re-formed their line and advanced, slow and deliberate, with deadly intent.

A Social Democrat and former Black Sea sailor, Fyodor Medvedev, who had fled the navy after the November 1904 riot in the Sevastopol barracks, stood on top of the makeshift barricade, holding a red revolutionary pamphlet. A rifle shot sounded from a nearby building. Someone had taken aim at the Cossacks. Medvedev raised the pamphlet over his head to rally the workers, surveyed the scene, and then shouted, "Comrades—"

The Cossacks fired at the crowd, killing Medvedev before he managed another word. They urged their horses forward. Some of the Cossacks fired their rifles; others brandished sabers or studded whips. At their advance, the workers fled in every direction. Some fell where they were struck. Others rushed into the factory or dove for cover behind the barricade. Short of suicide, their only option was to retreat from the Cossack guns, their slashing blades, and the stomping hooves of their horses. By the time the Cossacks reassembled, several workers had been killed and dozens wounded. A slight haze of gun smoke settled over the area.

When Kirill returned down Moskovskaya Street, having failed to locate any comrades in the city center, he saw carriages without their horses and stores and street stalls closed. Mothers hid their children behind their skirts while their husbands gestured angrily at the huge police presence patrolling the streets. Kirill sprinted toward the Henn factory.

Outside its gates, Cossacks stood by their horses, some smoking cigars. The police chief, Parashchenko, was huddled in conversation with several factory workers. Someone grabbed Kirill's shoulder from behind. He turned to find one of his comrades, his face white and his hands trembling.

"Fyodor has been shot," he said.

Kirill looked around him, finally understanding that the gathering had turned violent. His comrade began to tell him what had happened when several workers carried a shrouded body through the factory gates. The Cossacks tried to seize it from the workers, but they escaped down Moskovskaya Street. People emptied out of nearby factories, workshops, and houses and followed the macabre cortege, Kirill with them. "Women tore their hair and filled the air with sobs and curses on the murderers," recounted one witness.

As the procession coursed through the muddied streets of Peresyp, news of the killings spread throughout the district and into the city center. One horrified elderly man cried, "This is our government! This is what it has become!" The crowd became more excited. Some
shouted, "Guns! Give us guns!" By the early afternoon, thousands marched through Odessa, stopping trams and ignoring the mayor's pleas to return to their homes.

Kirill felt himself carried along by the surging mass of workers. They roamed the streets, pausing now and then to listen to a speaker or to throw rocks at a patrol, but unable to move together with a single purpose. They needed leadership and, more important, they needed guns if they were to stage an effective armed resistance against the government. Otherwise, as soon as the military stepped in with any strength, they could do nothing but scatter in retreat as they had done earlier that morning. More workers would die while government forces suffered mere scrapes and cuts.

Behind the high walls of Odessa's military garrison, General Semyon Kakhanov stood in his office overlooking the harbor. His lieutenants periodically interrupted his reverie with the latest reports from Peresyp and other parts of the city. As military governor of Odessa, he was the last line of defense, and the reports left him troubled.

At sixty-three years of age, with a slow gait and deep crevasses across his brow, Kakhanov was far from the fit, wild-spirited lieutenant who had participated in lightning charges against highlanders in the Caucasus Mountains in 1863. Even his days as a colonel, leading combat assaults on Turkish emplacements and fortresses during the Russo-Turkish War of 1877–78, seemed a lifetime ago. The gold saber and the St. George's Cross he had earned for bravery were both a quarter-century old. He had led the same life as his noble forebears, within the military and the state, at the highest levels. His family boasted a former deputy minister of the interior, several governors-general of various provinces, and members of the tsar's State Council. Only a few short months from retirement, Kakhanov had no intention of allowing a few "rebels" in Odessa to tarnish his pristine record or his family name.

Since the beginning of the year, he had watched strikes flare up and then expire; the workers accepted a few worthless gestures from their owners and went back to their factories. Although the workers' demands were rarely political in nature, despite the urgings of the revolutionary rabble, these strikes concerned him because they proved that the mayor and the police lacked authority over the peopie. Kakhanov had complained to St. Petersburg that in the past four months "not a single day has passed that my troops have not been called in to help civil officials." This worried him for two reasons: first, the police were powerless to maintain law and order on their own; second, every moment his men spent in Odessa took away from their training and sapped their morale.

Matters had become much more serious of late, though. Odessa's citizens were scared; rumors floated about of Jewish revolutionaries smuggling in weapons and planning assassinations of government officials; and now workers dared march on the city center. Kakhanov knew he was the only one with the leadership and the resources to subdue the city. Under his command in Odessa, he had a regiment of Cossacks and, should he need it, the authority to arm and direct the police. He could call on three more regiments and a brigade in reserve, more than enough troops and enough firepower to crush an opponent armed with rocks and the occasional peasant hunting rifle or antique revolver.

He had ordered the dispersal of Peresyp's strikers, and more troops were surging into the streets as evening fell. His men had advance instructions on where to station themselves to keep transportation channels open and protect crucial civil administration buildings and staff. Any violent protestors were to be arrested on the spot. When the situation warranted, his officers had orders to meet resistance with overwhelming force, as they had that morning. From his window, Kakhanov heard the shouts of marchers. He would treat them like any enemy on the battlefield.

Supply officer Makarov had never expected to confront citywide riots in Odessa, and they made his simple run for provisions anything but simple. Throngs of workers packed the streets, making a short walk to a grocer or butcher like a swim upstream through a strong current. From every direction came shouts of "Down with autocracy!" and "Death to the police!" In this confusion, it had been difficult to find enough meat to buy, particularly since Makarov insisted on haggling for the lowest price. Some of the sailors suggested they return to Tendra Island for provisions, but Makarov ordered them to keep their thoughts to themselves.

At 9
P.M.
, the lights went off throughout Odessa. Some workers
had shut down the city's gas and electricity station. A few minutes later, gunshots were heard in the distance as Cossacks tried to regain control of the streets. Makarov became more and more nervous. Finally, in the Greek bazaar, he came across a butcher willing to sell a few thousand pounds of meat. The assistant ship surgeon, Dr. Golenko, bald and pale as the moon, inspected the meat and concluded it was acceptable.

Sailor Alekseyev took one look at the hanging carcasses of cattle and turned to Makarov. "Your Honor, this meat is tainted. It's not fit to eat."

Makarov gave Alekseyev a fiendish look. "Bastard, be quiet! Otherwise I'll have you arrested and sent to jail."

After accepting a price, Makarov ordered his men to take the meat in sacks down to the torpedo boat. He had run out of time to look for any other provisions. Alekseyev heaved a sack onto his back, eager at least to return to the
Potemkin
to tell Vakulenchuk and the others about the massive strikes.

An hour later, the
Ismail
steamed out of the harbor, the meat stacked below, stewing in the sultry summer night. The torpedo boat made a fast return to Tendra—too fast for a small fishing boat, which it struck on the way. The crew stopped to rescue the fishermen and return them ashore. Finally, the
Ismail
arrived by the
Potemkin
's side at 4
A.M.
, June 14. Most of the ship was quiet; only the sailors on the night watch were still awake. In the dark, the meat was brought aboard and hung on hooks on the spar deck, maggots feasting unseen on the flesh.

T
WO BELLS STRUCK
at
5 A.M.
on the
Potemkin.
A bugler brought his horn to his lips, inflated his cheeks, and then belted out the reveille. A boatswain's whistle preceded the gruff calls throughout the berth decks: "Turn out! Roll up your hammocks!"

Matyushenko extended his legs out of his hammock and dropped to the deck. Other sailors reluctantly turned out as well.

"Quick about it! Lively there! Tumble out, men!"

The sailors hurried, their petty officers forcing them along with curses and shoves. After rolling his hammock into a tight cocoon and dressing himself, Matyushenko moved down the narrow passageway and then climbed a series of ladders to the upper deck. He stowed his hammock under its number plate, and, with the others, obeyed the order to wash. Hundreds of sailors jostled and elbowed alongside him in the narrow chamber lined with a long trough and seawater taps.

"To prayer!"

Water dripping from his face, Matyushenko followed this command, the morning ritual ingrained in him after years in the navy. The ship's priest, Father Parmen, an unkempt man with a straggly beard and a proclivity to drink who also served as Golikov's spy, led the men through their Orthodox prayers and hymns. A breakfast of tea and buttered chunks of black bread lasted a half-hour before the order came to clean the ship. Dressed in freshly laundered blue-and-white jerseys and plain white bell-bottoms rolled up at the ends, the sailors scrubbed every deck and bulkhead and polished brass fixtures until they glowed.