Red Mutiny (21 page)

At 1
P.M.,
a telegram about the
Potemkin
from General Kakhanov made its way to the office of Admiral Fyodor Avelan. He then forwarded the news to the tsar and ordered an aide to bring Chukhnin to him. Leaving his meeting in another part of the building, Chukhnin hurried through the corridors and entered the minister's office. A huge chamber overlooking the Alexander Garden, the office was decorated with paintings depicting epic sea battles of Russian history and portraits of tsars and famous admirals. Under their gaze, Chukhnin crossed the thick Persian carpet to sit by Avelan. The somber expression on his usually good-humored face boded ill.

The two men were a study in contrasts. Avelan, the privileged son of a noble Finnish family that had long served the tsars, was accustomed to the riches that surrounded him. A bon vivant, he had risen through the Admiralty by virtue of his family name and his charm. Although a skilled seafarer, the naval minister lacked the range of intelligence and the work ethic essential to running a modern navy—evidenced by his plan to send Rozhestvensky's squadron around the world to challenge the Japanese navy. From the moment of its conception, the mission was plagued by delays, indecision, and perhaps most dangerous of all, overconfidence. After the Tsushima disaster, Avelan had tendered his resignation and would have happily retired that previous May, but Nicholas had yet to choose a successor.

Grigory Chukhnin, who had served in a squadron commanded by
Avelan in 1893, was still eager for advancement, perhaps to naval minister, Born in the Russian port Nikolayev, he was the youngest of twelve children. His father and several brothers also served in the navy. Although a noble family, the Chukhnins were of minor rank and were, for all intents and purposes, penniless. When Grigory turned five years old, his mother died, and he was sent to the Alexander Cadet Corps school located at Tsarskoye Selo outside St. Petersburg. Essentially an orphanage for sons of military men, the school prepared its charges to follow in their fathers' footsteps. Instructors meted out punishments with birch rods and hair shirts. At age ten, Chukhnin was transferred to the Naval Cadet Corps, only a few years before the Alexander Cadet Corps school was forced to close because of its inhumane treatment of students.

The strict regimen of each school shaped Chukhnin. Unlike most of his classmates, he did not have relatives in St. Petersburg to provide Sundays away from school, nor enough money to return home during the summer break. He never experienced an alternative to rigid military life. Self-discipline became his trademark. He studied more, practiced harder, and pushed himself to succeed in every endeavor. To learn English and French, he memorized one hundred words a day from the dictionary. When he was diagnosed with potential tuberculosis at age fifteen, he instituted for himself a Spartan regimen of vigorous swimming and gymnastics, cold showers, sleeping without sheets, and a promise to abstain from drinking and smoking for his entire life. He emerged the specimen of good health, with the lean, muscular build of a wrestler and a face flushed with color.

At age seventeen, Chukhnin graduated at the top of his class and took his iron will and strident devotion to the state (which had, in effect, raised him) to a career in the navy. He excelled in a range of posts aboard corvettes and monitors and participated in a secret expedition to the United States in 1877, during the Russo-Turkish War, to collect merchant ships refitted with guns. With each promotion he won, his reputation as a tough and supremely capable leader grew. He learned every aspect of the ships under his command and expected his subordinates to do the same. Such was his attention to detail that while on voyages he personally inspected the boilers, climbing into them to make sure they had been properly cleaned. The Admiralty elevated him to rear admiral in 1896, charging him with the revitalization of the naval port in Vladivostok. His success there led first to his return to the Naval Cadet Corps in the position of superintendent, then his selection to head the Black Sea Fleet as vice admiral in 1903.

Chukhnin devoted nearly every hour, seven days a week, to his naval career; this single-mindedness ruined his ten-year first marriage (he had it annulled, citing his wife's infidelity) and estranged his daughter and son. His one hobby was painting in watercolor, landscapes usually, which he found relaxing.

Although he deserved his reputation as a martinet, Chukhnin was also reform-minded and far from a sycophant of the status quo, as were many of his fellow officers. At the cadet corps he pushed the Admiralty to modernize the curriculum to include more technical and practical lessons. As leader of the Black Sea Fleet, he risked his career by publicly questioning the quality of the navy's officers and promotion policies that rewarded length of service rather than merit. He was devoted to excellent service to the tsar, not politics.

Given his efforts, the news that Avelan delivered about the
Potemkin
came as a severe blow to Chukhnin. He suspected right away that revolutionaries had driven the crew to mutiny; the rest of the sailors had merely followed their lead, too foolish to realize the gravity of their sin. Since he took command in the Black Sea, Chukhnin had tried to root out this revolutionary disease within his fleet, bearing down with the same fierceness and discipline he had used to defeat his suspected tuberculosis—but his failure was now obvious. Not only would the event blemish his record, but also, more distressing to Chukhnin, it was an affront to the tsar.

"I must leave for Sevastopol immediately," Chukhnin said. He had little confidence in Vice Admiral Aleksandr Krieger, the officer in charge of the fleet in his absence. Krieger was a "palace admiral" if there ever was one.

Avelan agreed, informing the Black Sea Fleet commander that the tsar also wanted Chukhnin to personally handle the situation. While Chukhnin explained to the naval minister his theory of how the mutiny started and what steps needed to be taken, an aide brought two telegrams from Sevastopol. In the first, Krieger detailed his plan to dispatch two battleships, a destroyer, and a torpedo boat, led by Rear Admiral Fyodor Vishnevetsky, to pursue the
Potemkin.
The second
telegram, also from Krieger, detailed the addition of a third battleship to the task force.

The telegrams exasperated Chukhnin, confirming his lack of faith in his senior flagman. Did Krieger underestimate the severity of the crisis? Three battleships, a destroyer, and a torpedo boat? Moreover, Krieger did not feel it necessary to lead the squadron himself, sending an underling instead—was this cowardice, incompetence, or both? The
Potemkin
could outgun every battleship in the fleet. The mutinous sailors had removed the St. Andrew's flag and had raised the red flag of revolution; they threatened to bombard Odessa at the slightest sign of resistance. And if Krieger failed to squash the mutiny soon, it might spawn similar uprisings throughout the Black Sea. Chukhnin knew quite well that there were instigators aboard every ship in his fleet.

While sitting with Avelan, Chukhnin devised a new set of orders for Krieger to implement. That afternoon, Avelan sent them in his name from the Naval Ministry:

Proceed to Odessa with the entire squadron and every torpedo boat. Propose to the crew that they surrender. If they refuse, immediately sink the battleship by firing two torpedoes at close range. Prepare these torpedoes before confronting the battleship, so as not to give the
Potemkin
the chance to fire on the city or other ships. Shoot any rescued crew member who resists. Hand over the rest to Odessa's military commander for arrest.

They also sent a telegram to General Kakhanov, alerting him of their plans to deal with the crisis and save Odessa from the
Potemkin'
s guns.

Afterward, Chukhnin left for the Grand Hotel to gather his belongings so he could take an express train to Sevastopol that evening. He avoided the handful of foreign journalists who, having learned of the mutiny over the wires from Odessa, had descended on the Admiralty Building. A French reporter cornered Avelan's chief of staff on his exit a few hours after Chukhnin left. His response to the torrent of questions reflected the entire naval staffs mood: "For God's sake, don't speak of this."

A
T THE FORECASTLE
, Matyushenko stood before the crew. It was 2:30
P.M.
All but three of the Odessan revolutionaries had been removed from the battleship after their meeting broke up. Kirill, Feldmann, and a Bolshevik who went by the alias Boris stayed aboard, having earned enough of the crew's trust to remain, at least for the time being. They were to keep the
Potemkin
connected to the city's workers and help rally the sailors to the revolutionary cause.

Still, Matyushenko knew he was ultimately responsible for unifying the sailors. One of the greatest risks was dissension within their own ranks, particularly at this early stage of the uprising. Only after other ships within the Black Sea Fleet had come to their side would the majority of the crew, who now felt alone against the whole empire, have enough faith to commit fully to their fight. Until then, the leaders must inspire them to do so. If Matyushenko showed any hint of wavering now, the sailors would succumb to their fears.

"There are about one hundred of us on the
Potemkin
who are absolutely committed to revolution," Matyushenko stated. "We've taken the side of the people's fight, and, if need be, we'll sacrifice our lives in the effort. We call you, brothers, to join us in this glorious cause. If you don't want to listen to our call, if you want to go to Sevastopol and surrender, then we don't wish to live to see that shame. We'll line up, and you can take our guns and kill us now."

Nobody doubted his sincerity. He capably forged his words like a blacksmith shaping a piece of hot metal.

"Take the
Potemkin
and report back to Sevastopol. Surely, you'll
be met with music and great celebrations. The tsar will honor your actions and shower you with rewards for selling out the sacred cause of the people's freedom. Choose, then." He paused. "With us to the fight—or without us to Sevastopol!"

Silence followed his stirring speech. Then one called out, "We don't want to ask the tsar for forgiveness." Another shouted, "We'll fight together until the last drop of blood." Soon the crew cried out together, "Fight for victory or die trying!" Those still skeptical dared not openly challenge Matyushenko, nor would they have been heard over the rousing chants.

Matyushenko left the deck, and a boatswain ordered the crew to return to their posts. The sailors went enthusiastically, clear in their purpose again—for now. Kirill and Feldmann walked along the length of the battleship, amazed at the crew's discipline. Kirill had reluctantly seen his comrades off the
Potemkin,
believing the sailors were making a mistake by turning their backs on the Odessan strikers while waiting for the Black Sea Fleet's arrival. By staying aboard, he hoped to convince the ship's leaders to reconsider and, if not that, at least to raise the crew's political consciousness.

From the port, fishing vessels and a jumble of skiffs, rowboats, and small steamers continued to approach and circle the
Potemkin.
The crew accepted those bringing gifts, except one carrying crates of vodka, a delivery the sailor committee suspected was sent by a port official to get the crew drunk so they would forget their purpose. They also turned away several revolutionary agitators who tried to board, drawing up the rope ladders and cutting the ship off from any more visitors. Kirill could only stand back and watch. In his view, the battleship was abandoning the Odessan workers when they needed them most.

Feldmann, who was at his side, pointed out a pair of soldiers rowing briskly toward the battleship in a small skiff, waves lapping over its side.

"What have you come here for?" Feldmann yelled out.

"We're delegates from our regiments," they replied.

Feldmann ran to the admiral's stateroom, where the committee was drafting a communication to the Odessan authorities that threatened bombardment if they interfered with the gatherings in the port or prevented the workers from assisting the
Potemkin
in any way. Interrupting the meeting, Feldmann told them about the soldiers. The stateroom emptied.

"Comrades," one of the soldiers said after being allowed on board. "Our two regiments—the Ismailovsky and the Dunaisky—have sent us to tell you that we're with you. As soon as you step on shore, we'll come to your side."

Matyushenko and the other ship leaders circled around the soldiers, greeting them as brothers. If the army joined their fight, Odessa would easily fall into their hands. The danger the pair of soldiers had faced by rowing out to the battleship in their uniforms proved how earnest they were. They then addressed the crew, repeating their pledge of allegiance. The sailors cheered. This was almost too good to be true.

As the soldiers returned to their skiff, Matyushenko advised them to prepare to join an assault on the city once the rest of the fleet arrived. Until then, they must refuse to fire on the people if their commanders ordered them to. This discipline was critical.

After the soldiers had rowed away, Kirill and Feldmann vowed to each other to get the
Potemkin
to act against the city. They retreated to a stateroom with Boris to plan their propaganda campaign. Exhausted from nearly two days without rest, Kirill eased into a low chair and closed his eyes. Sleep was irresistible. But suddenly he was jarred awake by two words repeated over and over again: "The squadron!" When he rushed out of the stateroom, sailors already lined the railings, everyone looking toward the southeast. It was approaching 6
P.M.,
and the sun had lost most of its strength—a single trail of smoke could be seen on the horizon. Finally a ship appeared, alone in its approach toward Odessa.

Baron P. P. Eikhen, the colonel in command of the military transport ship
Vekha,
had left Nikolayev early that morning. When he neared Odessa, his signalman spotted the
Potemkin
in the harbor; a torpedo boat was moored to its side. He saluted the
Potemkin
with flags and then signaled that he had supplies to unload on shore.