Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Yes, there was news, the courier admitted; there was always news. A party of high ranking exiles were on the road, guarded, it was said, by a whole battalion of Sibirsky. He himself had seen the “politicals” in the villages making red banners of welcome and baking biscuits for the prisoners. In some places, the rumour had changed: the exiles had become the Provincial Governor, but he considered this improbable. Even his Excellency would know better than to travel north in February and besides, it was unlikely that the condemned rioters and agitators would be baking biscuits for him. As Goat’s Foot filled his own cup, he had agreed that this prospect seemed remote.

But who exactly were these people?

The carrier had had a hard head and Goat’s Foot had lost count of the number of beakers they had drunk together. Now each cup seemed to be taking its individual revenge as he reached the town. Stooping down, he scraped up some more snow and thrust it into his mouth, cooling his swollen tongue and clearing his head. Unsteadily he continued on his way, one hand pressing against the end wall of the Town Hall for support as he rounded the corner into Alexei Street. His blood thinned by the alcohol, he felt the cold in the marrow of his bones. Still he kept going, fearing that if he stopped his legs would buckle and give way under him. Seeing the shaggy figure weaving its way down the centre of the road, people began to stop and watch. Blearily he glared at them, but kept his strength for reaching his destination. Suddenly he stopped in the middle of Alexei Street, ignoring the curses of a sleigh driver who had to rein his team in hard to avoid running him over.

Where was his destination? he wondered.

He had intended to make the Doctor’s surgery his first port of call; the money he planned to extract from the Doctor’s assistant would pay for his purchases at the market. But what if old Tortsov himself was there? That would make his business very difficult indeed. Better to leave the matter until later on in the morning, he decided. He would go instead to the Black Cock and wait for Blonski. There, at least, he would get warm again.

Located at the western end of the Market Square, the Black Eagle Inn (Proprietor: S.K. Lavrov) faced one of the two entrances of the barracks, whence it drew most of its regular custom. Strictly speaking it was not an inn at all since Lavrov did not hold a licence to offer sleeping quarters to the weary traveller. Nevertheless its landlord, a surly dark haired veteran of the Sibirsky, was occasionally disposed to allow late drinkers to remain on the premises overnight and to leave them undisturbed if they slipped unconscious beneath the rough plank tables at which they had been drinking. On the morrow, in lieu of payment, he expected them to perform various menial chores such as sweeping the floor, putting down new sawdust or emptying the cold ashes from the fire in front of which they had warmed themselves the night before.

Such reciprocity was not extended to everyone. Bad payers were shown the door whatever the weather and soldiers from the barracks were never encouraged to stay beyond their permitted hours. Lavrov knew well that such delinquency would not go unnoticed by their commanding officer and could jeopardise his trade. It was one thing for Captain Steklov to spend the night entertaining a certain lady of high social position in the Hotel New Century; it was quite another to have half the garrison absent from their posts and unaccounted for.

“Let Captain Steklov stay as long as he likes at the hotel” was the landlord’s point of view. Certainly let him stay there rather than bring his money to the Black Cock, for nothing would empty the place faster than the sight of an epaulette. The Black Cock always had been and always would be a soldiers’ bar and if it grew a little rough sometimes, it was only to be expected. That Colonel Izorov knew of such an arrangement there was little doubt, but being a man of discretion, he had long ago chosen to look the other way, sharing the town’s generally low regard for what were popularly referred to as Lavrov’s “sleepers and sweepers”.