Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“I certainly will,” promised Kuibyshev as forcefully as he could. “Terrorist indeed! Good God! For a moment I thought you were going to cut me down. The road is dangerous enough as it is, what with the blizzards and mobs of ruffians, without decent people being trampled down by charging cavalry.”

“These ruffians you mentioned,” interrupted Captain Steklov, “are they far from here?”

“About three or four versts to the south,” the fur merchant told him, adding, “they are the ones who need sorting out.”

Satisfied that he had made his point, Kuibyshev climbed back into the carriage, muttering as he did so, “Terrorist indeed! Has the world gone mad?”

Turning in his saddle, Captain Steklov peered southwards down the Highway in the direction whence the carriage had come.

“Are there many of them, would you say?” he enquired.

“No, only about eight or so,” replied Kuibyshev, busily arranging travelling rugs around his legs. “Drunks, mostly, with a few banners. Complete scum, but a menace all the same.”

“Did you notice, by any chance, whether they were armed?”

“Armed?” Kuibyshev exploded again. “Look, what in hell’s name is going on, Captain? I leave town for a few weeks and when I come back, the whole countryside is in an uproar. No, of course they weren’t armed. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here to tell you about it, would I?”

Rising slightly in his stirrups, Captain Steklov beckoned his sergeant over and gave him his orders.

“Sergeant Grednyin! Take ten men and clear these people off the road. Use as much force as is necessary to guarantee that the convoy has free passage.”

As the sergeant led his men away, Captain Steklov turned back to address Kuibyshev.

“Would you allow my men to accompany you on the remainder of your journey? It would serve as a guarantee against further mishaps.”

“Oh, very well,” grumbled Kuibyshev. “If you must.”

The air rattled with the sounds of sabres being sheathed and the remaining troops formed up in two long lines on either side of the merchant’s carriage. With a crack of the whip, the driver Osip urged his ponies forward and the strange procession moved off at a brisk trot towards the distant lights of Berezovo. Kuibyshev shook his head in disbelief. Level with his eyes at either side, he could see the uniform sleeve of a soldier’s greatcoat. Gradually the absurdity of the situation dawned upon him and he began first to chuckle to himself and then to laugh out loud.

“You are amused, Illya Moiseyevich?”

The Captain’s voice came from out of the darkness somewhere to his right.

“I was just thinking, Captain,” he called back, “that the Tsar himself could not ask for a better escort. I would give half my wealth to know what my wife would say if she saw me now.”

A muttered comment from the rear of the troop drew ribald laughter.

“I think she is in for a shock, eh, Captain?” continued Kuibyshev blithely.

“Oh yes, you could be right,” the young officer agreed, appearing beside the window.

Laughing, Kuibyshev waved a finger up at him in mock warning.

“You should be more careful, Steklov!” he joked. “The next time, I shall expect a German band!”

Settling back in his slat, the merchant rearranged his travelling rugs and let himself enjoy what remained of his journey.

As they entered the outskirts of the town he felt once again the familiar sense of how small and confined everything seemed in comparison even to Tobolsk.

All the same, he told himself, Berezovo is one of the best trading posts for furs in the Empire. For all their airs and graces, many of the nobles who live in the cities would give their eye teeth for a quarter of the profit I will make this season.

Before him, he saw the outline of the small schoolhouse, towards which he contributed a not inconsiderable sum for maintenance. Beyond the school, the graveyard in which his beloved parents slept the eternal sleep. Born in poverty and buried in splendour, their grave was marked by the most costly monument ever erected in the town. He crossed himself as the procession wheeled to the left and slowed as it entered Alexander III Boulevard. At every street corner, he began to make out figures in uniform, holding flaming torches. To his surprise, he saw that they were not troops, but a mixture of Colonel Izorov’s men and guards from the town’s prison.