The Steel Tsar (15 page)

Korzeniowski nodded. He looked at Pilniak and myself. “Well, gentlemen, have you any suggestions?”

“Makhno has us completely in his power,” I said. “Unless we attempt to reach his ship through our inspection hatches, we have no way of stopping him.”

Korzeniowski bent his head, as if in thought. When he looked up he was in control of himself. “I think we can all get some sleep,” he said. “I regret that I did not anticipate this particular problem, gentlemen, and that we have no orders to cover it. I think I had better say here and now that I release you from my command.”

It was a strange, almost oriental thing to say. Again it gave me a better insight into the Slavic temperament than I had a few months before. I respected Captain Korzeniowski’s attitude, however. He was a man of honour who believed that he had failed in his duty. He was now giving us carte blanche to act individually as we thought best.

In a sense I had been extraordinarily impressed by the exchange between Makhno and Korzeniowski. Both appeared, for all that they seemed to be in conflict, to have at root the same sense of duty to those they led. Once Korzeniowski had been proven, in his own eyes, incompetent, he no longer felt that he had any right to command at all. I had the feeling that Makhno and perhaps many of the Cossack
atamans
took the same view. Unlike so many politicians or military leaders they made no attempt to justify their mistakes, to cling to power. For them power held enormous responsibility and was merely invested in them temporarily. I was learning, I think, one or two things about the fundamental issues surrounding Russian politics—something which was not normally put into words by any side, by any observer. These issues were at once simpler and more complex than I had once supposed.

Pilniak was saluting. “Thank you, sir,” he said. I had no choice but to salute as well. Korzeniowski returned the salute and then went slowly back to his cabin.

A notion suddenly came into my head. “Good God, Pilniak, he doesn’t intend to shoot himself I hope.”

Pilniak watched the departing captain. “I doubt it, Mr. Bastable. That, too, would be cowardly. He will resume command should we ask him. When there is something to command. In the meanwhile, he releases us so that we may take whatever actions we think will help us best, as individuals, to survive. We are a primitive people, Mr. Bastable, in some ways. Rather like Red Indians, eh? In a way? If our war-leaders fail us, they resign immediately, unless we insist they continue. That is true democratic socialism, isn’t it?”

“I’m no politician,” I told him. “I don’t really understand the difference between one ‘ism’ and another. I’m a simple soldier, as I’ve said more than once.”

I returned with Pilniak to our tiny cabin with its two bunks, one on top of the other. We slept fitfully, both of us having merely removed our jackets and trousers.

By dawn we were up, taking coffee in the mess. Captain Korzeniowski was absent.

A few minutes later, he joined us. “You will be interested to learn,” he said, “that we appear to have reached the bandits’ camp.”

We all rushed out of the mess and up to the observation ports. The ship was dropping close to the ground. Trailing mooring ropes had been dropped from the hull. Even as we watched we saw a mass of Cossack horsemen racing towards the ropes. One by one they were seized by at least half-a-dozen riders.

In triumph, the Cossacks dragged our ship back to their headquarters, while Makhno’s black battlecruiser let go its grapples and drifted some yards off, to fly beside us. We saw anarchists waving to us from their own gondola. I was almost tempted to wave back. There was no mistaking Makhno’s feat. He was a very clever man, and plainly no fiery charlatan. I could make no sense of his politics, but I continued to keep a high opinion of his intelligence.

Slowly, ignominiously, our ship was hauled to the ground by the whooping Cossacks. These were evidently not the same men who had attacked Yekaterinaslav, but it was equally evident that they knew what we had done during the Cossack charge. I got a better look at them now. In the main they were small men, swarthy, heavily bearded, dressed in a mixture of clothing, much of it fairly ragged. All were festooned with weapons, with bandoliers, with daggers and swords; all rode wonderfully. They were plainly rogues but were not by any means mere bandits.

Soon our keel was bumping along the ground as the ship was tied to wooden stakes set for that purpose into the earth on the outskirts of a small, one-street town which seemed to have been taken over piecemeal by the rebels.

Our discussion soon concluded that we had best “play things by ear” and avoid armed conflict if possible.

We stood there looking out at the Cossacks while they grinned and gesticulated at us. They did not seem to be threatening our lives. They were overjoyed with the capture of a Central Government ship and seemed to bear us very little malice. I mentioned this to Pilniak.

“I agree,” he said. “It’s true they don’t hate us. But that’s the last thing which will stop a Cossack from killing you, if he so feels like it.”

I realized that we were in somewhat greater danger than I had originally thought. The Cossacks did not accept the usual conventions concerning a captured enemy and it was questionable now whether or not we should experience the next day’s dawn.

Captain Korzeniowski remained in his cabin. As we stared out at our captors the tension in the gondola began to grow. Overhead we could hear men climbing over our hull, laughing and exchanging jokes with the Cossacks on the ground.

Eventually Pilniak looked at me and the other officers and he said: “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

We all agreed.

Pilniak gave the order to lower our gangways and, as the side of the gondola opened out, we marched in good order down the steps towards the Cossacks.

We had expected everything but the cheer which went up. The Cossacks are the first to acknowledge nerve when it is displayed as we displayed it. Perhaps Pilniak had known this.

Only Captain Korzeniowski refused to leave the ship and we accepted his decision.

Pilniak and I were in the forefront. As we left the gangway he approached the nearest Cossack and saluted. “Lieutenant L. I. Pilniak of the Volunteer Airfleet.”

The Cossack said something in a dialect which defeated my imperfect Russian. He pushed his military cap back on his forehead, by way of returning the salute. Then he made his horse walk backwards, in order to clear a space for us, waving us on towards the village.

Still rather nervous of what the Cossacks might decide, on a whim, to do, we began to walk in double-file towards the rebel headquarters. Pilniak was smiling as he spoke and I returned the smile. “Chin up, old man! Is this what the British call ‘showing the flag’?”

“I’m not quite sure,” I said. “It’s been a long while since I had occasion to do it.”

The Cossacks, some mounted, some on foot, were crowding in on us. They were pretty filthy and many of them were evidently drunk. I’ve never smelled so much vodka. Some of them appeared to have dowsed themselves in the stuff. They offered us catcalls and insults as we walked between their lines and we were almost at the first buildings of the village when the press became so tight that we could no longer move.

It was then that one of our riggers, near the rear, must have struck out at a Cossack and a fight between the two began. Our carefully maintained front threatened to crack.

I think we probably would have been torn to pieces if, from our right, a horse-drawn machine-gun cart had not suddenly parted the ranks. One man drove the little cart while another discharged a revolver into the air, shouting to the Cossacks to desist.

The man with the revolver was Nestor Makhno.

“Back, lads,” he cried to his men. “We’ve no grudge against those who misguidedly serve the State, only against the State itself.”

He smiled down at me. “Good morning, Captain Bastable. So you decided to join us, eh?”

I made no reply to this. “We are heading for your camp,” I said. “We accept that we are your prisoners.”

“Where’s the commander?”

“In his cabin.”

“Sulking, no doubt.” Makhno shouted something in dialect to the Cossacks and once more the ranks fell back, enabling us to continue on through the streets until Makhno’s cart stopped in front of a large schoolhouse which flew the rebel flag: a yellow cross on a red field. He invited Pilniak and myself to join him and told the rest of our chaps that they could get food and rest at a nearby church.

We were reluctant to part from the crew and fellow officers, but we had little choice.

Makhno jumped from the cart and, limping slightly, escorted us into the schoolhouse. Here, in the main classroom, several Cossack chiefs awaited us. They were dressed far more extravagantly than their men, in elaborately embroidered shirts and kaftans, with a great deal of silver and gold about their persons and decorating their weapons.

The strangest sight, however, was the man who sat at the top of the classroom, where the teacher would normally be. He lounged forward on the desk, his face completely covered by a helmet which had been forged to represent a fierce, moustachioed human face. Only the eyes were alive and these seemed to me to be both mad and malevolent. The man was not tall, but he was bulky, wearing a simple, grey moujik shirt, grey baggy trousers tucked into black boots. He had no weapons, no insignia on his costume, and one of his arms seemed thinner than the other. I knew that we must be confronting the Steel Tsar himself, the rebel leader Djugashvili.

The voice was muffled and metallic from within the helm. “The English renegade, Bastable. We’ve heard of you.” The tones were coarse, aggressive. The man seemed to me to be both insane and drunk. “Is it good sport, then? Killing honest Cossacks?”

“I am an officer in the Volunteer Air Service,” I told him.

The metal mask lifted to offer me a direct stare. “What are you, then? Some sort of mercenary?”

I refused to explain my position.

He leaned back in his chair, heavy with his own sense of power. “You joined to fight the Japs, is that it?”

“More or less,” I said.

“Well, you’ll be pleased to learn that the Japs are almost beaten.”

“I am pleased. I’d be glad to see an end to the war. To all wars.”

“You’re a pacifist!” Djugashvili began to laugh from within the helm. It was a hideous sound. “For a pacifist, my friend, you’ve a lot of blood on your hands. Two thousand of my lads died at Yekaterinaslav. But we took the city. And destroyed the air fleet you sent against us. What d’you say to that?”

“If the War with Japan is almost over,” I said, “then your triumph will be short-lived. You must know that.”

“I know nothing of the sort.” He signaled to one of his men, who went to a side-door, opened it and called through. Moments later I saw Peewee Wilson emerge. The Bore of Rishiri Camp back again as large as life.

“Hello, Bastable, old man,” he said. “I knew there must be some decent socialists in Russia. And I’ve found the best.”

“You’re working with these people?”

“Certainly. Very glad to put my talents at their disposal.”

The familiar self-congratulatory drone was already beginning to grate, after seconds.

“Mr. Wilson keeps our airships running,” said the Steel Tsar. “And he’s been very helpful in other areas.”

“Nice of you to say so, sir.” Wilson gave a peculiar twisted smile, half pride, half embarrassment.

“Good morning, Mr. Bastable.” I recognized the warm, ironic voice immediately. I looked towards the door to see Mrs. Una Persson standing there. She had crossed bandoliers of bullets over her black military coat, a Smith and Wesson revolver on her hip, a fur hat pulled to one side. She was as beautiful as ever, with her oval face and clear, grey eyes.

I bowed. “Mrs. Persson.”

I had not seen her for some time, since together we had inhabited the world of the Black Attila. Her eyes held that look of special recognition which one traveler between the planes reserves for another.

“You’ve come to join our army, I take it,” she said significantly.

I trusted her completely and took her hint at once. Much to Pilniak’s astonishment, I nodded. “My intention all along,” I said.

Djugashvili seemed unsurprised. “We have many well-wishers abroad. People who know how much we have suffered under Kerensky. But what of your companion?”

Pilniak drew himself up and brought his heels together with a click. “I should like to join my fellow prisoners,” he said.

The Steel Tsar shrugged. The metal glinted and seemed to be reflected in his eyes. “Very well.” He signed to one of his men. “Dispose of him with—”

Makhno suddenly interposed. “Dispose? What are you suggesting, comrade?”

Djugashvili waved his hand. “We have too many mouths to feed as it is, comrade. If we let these survive—”

“They are prisoners of war, captured fairly. Send them back to Kharkov. All I wanted was their ship. Let them go!”

Pilniak looked from one to the other. He had never expected to be the subject of a moral argument between two bandits.

“I am responsible for all decisions,” said Djugashvili. “I will choose whether—”

“I captured them.” Makhno was cold and angry. His voice dropped, but as the tone lowered it carried increased authority. “And I will not agree to their murder!”

“It is not murder. We are sweeping up the rubbish of History.”

“You are planning to kill honest men.”

“They attack socialism.”

“We must live by example and offer example to others,” said Makhno. “It is the only way.”

“You are a fool!” Djugashvili rose and brought his sound hand down on the desk. “Why feed them? Why send them back so they can fight against us again? Cleanse them!”

“Some will fight against us—but others will understand the nature of our cause and tell their comrades.” Makhno folded his arms across his chest. “It is always so. If we are brutal, then it gives them a further excuse for brutality. By God, Djugashvili, these are simple enough arguments. What do you want? Blood-sacrifices? How can you claim to represent enlightenment and liberty? You have already been responsible for the slaughter of Jews, the destruction of peasant villages, the torturing of innocent farmers. I agreed to bring my ships to you because you promised that these things were accidental, that they had stopped. They have not stopped. You are proving to me as you stand there that they will never stop. You are a fraud, an authoritarian hypocrite!”