Red Mutiny (41 page)

Even the Japanese, who had the most to gain from a tsar hobbled by mutiny, sympathized with Nicholas rather than with the sailors. A Japanese official told the newspaper
Fiji Shimpo,
"We have lately heard that a mutinous spirit was rife among the Russian troops. This, combined with the disgrace of the Black Sea, makes us fear that the Russian government might be overthrown.... Then we should have nobody with whom to negotiate. It is sincerely to be hoped, both for the sake of Russia and Japan, that the trouble will end soon."

With worldwide political and public opinion leveled against the
Potemkin
sailors, with Russian liberals disavowing their actions, with additional Black Sea Fleet mutinies disbanded, and with Chukhnin marshaling resistance against the battleship throughout the region, the crew had only their exiled revolutionary leaders—men such as Lenin and Martov—to look to for assistance. These leaders were found wanting. Their representatives in major Russian cities printed leaflets referencing the mutiny, but they merely used the
Potemkin
to further their own propaganda. "The ironclad
Knyaz Potemkin
has raised our red revolutionary flag.... Comrades, now it's our turn. We must, we have to perform our duty in support of our Lodz, Warsaw and Odessa comrades. After Bloody Sunday, all of Russia pays careful attention to what is happening here," the Social Democrat's St. Petersburg committee proclaimed, in its effort to recruit workers to strike against mobilization.

In Geneva, the revolution's intellectual leaders busied themselves interpreting the
Potemkin'
s significance to their larger struggle against the tsar. But beyond Vasilyev-Yuzhin's improbable mission, which was arranged by Lenin, they were incapable of coordinating any help for the sailors in the various Russian ports to which the battleship might next travel.

Lenin did write a letter to the International Socialist Bureau, urging it to appeal to workers everywhere to protest against sending any European warships into the Black Sea to sink the
Potemkin.
Apart from that, he devoted his time and prodigious work ethic to the internecine conflict within the Social Democratic Party. Specifically, he issued a vindictive attack on a recent Menshevik conference for its lack of organization. Later that same day, Lenin ran across an editorial in the Paris newspaper
Le Matin
that chastised all Social Democrats for the same problem: "One cannot overstate the lack of organization of the revolution. The revolution gains possession of a battleship, an event unique in history, but it does not know what to do with it."

On the afternoon of June 21, the
Potemkin
and the
Ismail
steamed sluggishly across the Black Sea, their crews worn down by the heat and the lack of food. Nowhere was the situation worse than down in the
Potemkin
's engine room. Day and night, the machinists and stokers were at the mercy of the humid, slack-choked air and constant noise while they kept the battleship running on its 370-mile journey to Theodosia, though at half its normal speed. Because of the lack of fresh water (the onboard distillery provided only enough for drinking), they used saltwater for the boilers, which corroded and clogged the pipes. Only a few boilers could be used at a time, so the sailors could clean the others. The walls were searing to the touch as the men crawled inside with rags and scouring brushes; their work merely delayed the inevitable ruin of the boilers.

When these sailors ascended from the engine room to the open decks, they could barely stand or speak. "We haven't the strength," one machinist gasped, in a report to the ship's leaders. "Our arms are weak. Every moment we feel we will drop." Still, they managed to keep the engines going, using their two- to three-day supply of coal sparingly.

The machinists and stokers found little cheer among the other sailors. A few sang songs or played cards to entertain themselves between watches, but the lightheartedness they had enjoyed on the voyage to Constanza was now gone. Eight days had passed since the men had eaten a proper meal, and the cooks were left with only four bags of dried bread and some porridge to feed them. Some sailors deserted their duties, and ensigns Alekseyev and Kaluzhny holed up in a stateroom; idleness allowed their fears to fester as they imagined dying in a squadron attack. The battleship's slow progress to Theodosia also cut at the crew's spirit. Many were terrorized by the thought of being caught on the open sea by their pursuers, namely, the rumored torpedo boat manned by officers. The previous night had been spent in complete darkness; the ship's searchlights were turned off so as not to give away the
Potemkin
's position.

Alone on the Black Sea, with nothing but rolling waves in every direction, the sailors experienced a deep sense of isolation. On their first day in Odessa, they had been greeted like heroes by the workers, but since then, they had no contact with the people for whom they might sacrifice their lives to help. The flush of success they had felt when the
St. George
came to their side had been dashed by betrayal. This disappointment deepened as the sailors realized that a fleetwide mutiny was unlikely to occur. The flight to Romania had provided a glimmer of hope, but now it too had been extinguished.

While in Constanza, the crew still had two choices, as Feldmann later described it: "To surrender under the protection of the Romanian authorities or to enter on a war to the death with tsarism. We chose the latter." This irrevocable decision weighed heavily on every crew member during the two-day journey to Theodosia.

Preying on this collective feeling of doom, the petty officers quietly turned some sailors against the revolutionaries. They sowed doubts, telling the crew that the battleship needed repair or it would soon lose its fighting ability, making it an easy target to capture or—worse—to send to the bottom of the sea. At every opportunity and about every issue, whether cleaning the boilers or raising festive banners along the yardarm, they bitterly complained about Matyushenko and the ship's other leaders. When Kirill overheard two petty officers discussing how the tsar would show no mercy to the sailors, he threatened to have them thrown overboard, knowing how poisonous their talk had become. If the majority of the crew lost faith, the mutiny was finished.

Standing on the bridge, Matyushenko discounted the crew's troubled mood. In Constanza, they had clearly expressed that they would rather starve than relinquish the
Potemkin,
and the sailor committee had chosen their new course of action after an open debate. In the morning, the sailors had shown continuing resolve when they came across a Turkish coal ship. Although the
Potemkin's
coal stock was dangerously depleted, they held true to their promise not to attack foreign vessels, letting the ship pass. Like Kovalenko, who often joined Matyushenko to observe the men, he was less inclined to see the crew's increasingly beleaguered appearance than he was to recall how eagerly they had congregated to hear the discussion at committee meetings or speakers such as Nikishkin discussing the revolution's goals.

That afternoon, machinist Denisenko, who had been laboring mightily to keep the engines running, came to the bridge to speak with his friend.

"What do you think of our chances?" Matyushenko asked, keen as always to talk about the fight ahead.

"When we arrive in Theodosia, it'll be clear enough," Denisenko said.

"I think we should go to Batumi next," Matyushenko replied. "We can land along the coast, and other comrade-revolutionaries will join us. There are lots of Armenians in the city, and many of them are socialist. We'll really go to it against the tsar, taking towns, one by one, until we reach St. Petersburg."

Denisenko protested that this plan was premature, but Matyushenko cut him off mid-argument, his face reddened and jaw clenched. It was obvious that he did not want to hear any doubts. In his view, their single battleship could still triumph over the tsar. He could not stand to believe otherwise.

Before the sun set that evening, the snowcapped mountains of the Caucasus came into view on the horizon. At a great distance, they seemed almost to float in the sky. The sailors stood mesmerized by the sight. Soon, however, the peaks vanished in the encroaching darkness, and feelings of isolation returned.

A
T 8 A.M.
on June 22, the
Potemkin
steamed toward the crescent-shaped Gulf of Theodosia, the red revolutionary flag flying stiffly in the wind. The gunners had removed the covers from the twelve-inch guns and had polished the long black barrels. Decorative flags hung from the fore and stern masts, and the decks and brasswork glistened. The sailors briskly attended to their duties, wearing their newest (or least soiled) uniforms. The ship's leaders wanted to present the best possible image to Theodosia: they were freedom fighters, not wayward rogues, as the tsar would have others believe. A mile out from the port's breakwater, the sailors dropped anchor.

Located on the southern Crimean coast, between Sevastopol and the Kerch Strait, the small trading town of Theodosia was a relic of former greatness. Set at the juncture of the Crimean mountains and the steppes, Theodosia ("gift of the gods") was founded by Greek traders in the sixth century
B.C.
to export grain. Over the next fifteen hundred years, the city shifted hands as often as the wind changed, controlled at one time or another by the Persians, the Romans, the Goths, the Huns, the Tatars, and the Byzantines. In the thirteenth century, the Genoese took over the port, constructing a stone fortress with tall defensive towers and renaming the city Kaffa. At its zenith as the seat of Genoese power in the Black Sea, hundreds of trading vessels, feluccas, and warships cruised in and out of Kaffa's harbor daily; dozens of languages were spoken in the streets; and merchants traded gold, silk, spices, pearls, caviar, Russian furs, and, most lucratively, slaves (over fifteen hundred a year). It was through Kaffa that the bubonic plague likely entered Europe from Asia in 1347. The Turks replaced the Genoese in 1475, and then, in the late eighteenth century, General Potemkin conquered the Crimea for Russia. The city's heyday came to an end when Catherine the Great focused on building Odessa, shifting the region's locus of power. She restored the port's former name but otherwise left Theodosia alone. It withered away. The
Potemkin
sailors saw the ruins of its once great fortress on their approach.

The crew lowered a launch, and Kirill, Koshuba, and Reznichenko went into the port, shadowed by the
Ismail,
to negotiate with city officials about purchasing coal and other provisions. Protected by a garrison of only five hundred soldiers without artillery, Theodosia could never withstand an attack from the battleship, but the crew wanted to use their guns only as a last resort. By the time the launch reached the port, hundreds of people had gathered on the quays. There had been rumors that the mutinous battleship might come there. Mounted police, with rifles at their side, directed their horses through the crowd but made no effort to disperse it. The three revolutionaries came ashore armed with revolvers—eager to make a show of strength.

Kirill walked straight to the nearest policeman and asked to speak with his commander. Moments later, a police captain came forward.

"We represent the crew of the revolutionary battleship
Potemkin
" Kirill said, in a low voice. "We would like for city representatives to come to our ship immediately. In addition, we need a doctor. Finally, I must warn you, if you deny our demands or delay us in any way, we're quite prepared to destroy the city. We'll wait here for the representatives."

The police captain told Kirill he would inform the mayor. Then he disappeared into the crowd. An hour passed before Mayor L. A. Durante approached, accompanied by a clerk and a doctor. The mayor was as round and amiable as the clerk was reed-thin and stern. Kirill invited them out to the
Potemkin.

"We're at your service," Durante said, politely, making his way toward the launch.

Kirill and the two sailors stayed ashore to speak to those on the quay. In his usual fervent manner, Kirill told the crowd of the mutiny: "We, sailors of the
Potemkin,
offer you our brothers' hands and are willing, with the Russian people at our side, to battle the monarchy." On hearing these treasonous words, the police attempted to scatter the crowds. Kirill unholstered his revolver and threatened to signal for the battleship's guns. The police retreated.

On the
Potemkin,
Matyushenko greeted Mayor Durante and his companions on the quarterdeck before leading them to the admiral's stateroom, where the committee had convened. The doctor was taken to the infirmary, where several sailors were suffering from a stomach illness. In the stateroom Kovalenko spoke first, informing the Theodosian officials that the
Potemkin
was fighting for Russia's liberty and that it was "the duty of every citizen, of every public institution, to support us, by attracting the people's sympathy to our side." Then Matyushenko stood. Everyone in the room was tense: the mayor waited to hear what was expected of him, and the sailors wondered if these expectations would be met.

Matyushenko assured Durante that the sailors had no intention of harming the city as long as he helped them. First, they needed to purchase supplies—Matyushenko handed the mayor a list similar to the one given to Captain Negru in Constanza. Second, he explained, they wanted the mayor to convene a city council meeting attended by the general public to inform Theodosia of the
Potemkin'
s aims. Matyushenko then passed the mayor the proclamation "To All the Civilized World," which Kirill had written.

Durante surprisingly said he would have their requests fulfilled by 4
P.M.
that same afternoon. The mood in the stateroom eased immediately; the sailors did not even question why their demands had been agreed to so easily—unlike their experience in Odessa and Constanza. Apparently, they so desperately needed and wanted this answer that they refused to suspect that the mayor's promise would not be fullfilled. Minutes later, Matyushenko led the city officials back to the launch. Before boarding, the mayor turned back to the crew. "Gendemen, please have mercy on the city. I'm begging you."